


Blind Love

by fms_fangirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drama, M/M, Other, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William is losing his sight and Grell discovers the price of her love for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

William was always reassured by how little Spectacles had changed over the years. Pops and his assistants still carefully ground the lenses by hand and lovingly handcrafted the frames. The department was a little larger to accommodate the ever-expanding Dispatch and increased population of the realm, but the apprentices were trained according to the old methods and encroaching modernization had only barely made itself known.

Pops made a final minute adjustment to his spectacles and handed them over. “How does that feel?”

He peered at the chart on the wall. The difference was minimal, but he nodded and said, “Much better, thank you.”

“I’d like you to come back next month for another exam.”

“Is that really necessary?” He did his best to keep his tone respectful.

The older man closed the drawer containing his tools. “William, you’ve been complaining of headaches for some time now and this is your third new pair in less than a year. Humour an old man, will you?”

“Very well.”

“So far, I’ve not made any reports concerning your eyesight, but it is worrying. If it continues . . . ”

William swallowed hard and adjusted his glasses, trying not to betray his alarm at hearing his greatest fear finally spoken aloud. “I appreciate your help and your discretion.”

“You did visit the Infirmary as I suggested, didn’t you? The headaches and the rest might be symptoms of something else.”

Dishonesty did not come easily to William, but he managed to look the old man in the eye and reply, “Yes” before fleeing the department as quickly as he could.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Pops, dearest! What on earth did you say to William just now?” Grell exclaimed, strolling into his office a few minutes later. “He rushed past like the hounds of hell were at his heels.”

“Er—you know William. He can’t bear to be away from his office for more than a few minutes. Convinced the entire Dispatch will fall to pieces without him. Now, if you could look at the chart on the wall.”

Grell obeyed, read the chart, allowed him to look into her eyes and handed her spectacles over for inspection all the while wondering why Pops looked so uncomfortable.

“No change,” he finally pronounced. “You must have discovered the Fountain of Youth. Most of us require new spectacles every fifty or sixty years.”

“And poor William seems to need them almost every year,” she laughed. “He must have been dreadfully nearsighted in his human existence.” Why was Pops staring at her, as if unsure to speak?

“Grell,” he said at last, “would you do me an enormous favour?”

“Of course.” She was very fond of him. Ever since her graduation when she had described the glasses she wanted and he had not laughed.

He was nervously pleating a sheet of paper on his desk. “Keep an eye on William. Try to notice if he is experiencing violent headaches or is having difficulty seeing. You are the only agent with whom he has any sort of relationship.”

“The only relationship I have with William is with the business end of his Death Scythe or the bottom of his shoe,” she snorted, scratching her arm uncomfortably.

“But you have known him longer than anyone and you have worked closely with him for almost a century. I am betraying a confidence by telling you this, but I am truly concerned. Could he have received an injury to his head in the past year or two and not sought treatment? It might explain things.”

She shook her head. “William has spent very little time in the field for the last few years,” she replied. “And you know what a stickler he is. Anyone injured must report to the Infirmary immediately.”

“Maybe so,” he sighed, “but he is terrified of revealing any weakness or fault. He could very well have shrugged off an injury to himself.”

“Is it very bad?” she asked hesitantly.

“It could be. If his eyesight continues to deteriorate at its current rate and we cannot find a cause or treatment, he will no longer be able to do his work within a few weeks. He will be blind by the end of the month.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Genuinely shaken, Grell rushed back to her office, restraining the impulse to burst in upon William and start firing questions at him. She searched her memory for any occasion when he might have sustained an injury in the past few years. With a loud sigh, she gathered up an enormous stack of paper from her desk and approached one of the secretaries.

“I’m going to the file room for a bit,” she said. “If you don’t see me within a few hours, send out a search party.”

She was only half-joking. The file room of the Dispatch rivalled the Library in its size. The personnel files alone could fill Westminster Abbey. How many agents had there been with the last initial S, she wondered, gloomily pulling out one drawer after another from the endless ranks of cabinets. Finally, she found it. At least his file of completed collections for the past five years was fairly thin.

She had never imagined that she could be grateful for the Dispatch’s hunger for endless paperwork, but William’s terse notes were frustratingly unrevealing. “Nothing of note” or “Collection completed” over and over. Two caught her eye. “Minor altercation—nothing serious to report” and “Slight wound sustained—no sick time required as per Infirmary.”

William prided himself on his efficiency. She wondered how _slight_ that wound really was and she had been present at that minor altercation—an entire pack of demons and a carriage accident that had killed eight. He had been knocked from a rooftop, she recalled. Might he have hit his head in the fall?

 

Two hours later, her head was tingling. She couldn’t really blame William. She had burst into his office four times with trivial questions, hoping to find him rubbing his eyes or peering in confusion at some report—anything that would allow her to broach the subject. And he hadn’t put much force behind the blow when he shouted, “Honestly Grell! Have you forgotten how to knock?”

It was worth risking another whack and, this time, she found him slumped over his desk, his spectacles resting atop his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Will,” she said softly, “are you quite all right?”

He scowled at her and replaced his glasses. “Bit of a headache. New spectacles,” he said shortly. “What is it _this_ time?”

“Oh! I was wondering if you had, er—a spare sheet of blotting paper. I spilled nail lacquer all over mine.”

Sighing, he reached into his drawer and, suddenly, looked up at her accusingly. “Did Pops ask you to check on me?”

“William, darling!” she exclaimed, fluttering her eyelashes wildly at him. “Whatever do you mean? Do I need a reason to want to feast my eyes on your beautiful, cruel face?”

“Stop it, Grell,” he ordered. “Even _you_ aren’t usually this bothersome without a reason. And you were waiting at Spectacles when I left.”

“He did,” she confessed. “He’s terribly worried. And so am I.”

“He seems to be having a problem fitting me with spectacles that meet my requirements,” he said icily. “Perhaps, it is time he retired. I appreciate your concern, but kindly keep your nose out of my business.”

How far could she be demoted for shaking her supervisor? “Oh, you do, do you?” she shouted. “How will you appreciate being removed from your position? How will you appreciate being blind?”

And grabbing him by his tie, she opened a portal and pulled him through.

XXXXXXXXXX

“You will be written up for this!” William sputtered as they landed in the Infirmary.

“Go ahead!” Grell yelled, dragging him past bewildered nurses into the Chief Medical Officer’s presence. “Demote me to a pair of nail clippers while you’re at it! You are seeing the doctor or I’ll go to Management and file a report under Regulation 17b.”

He turned pale. “You wouldn’t!”

“Regulation 17b,” she chanted. “‘If an Agent has reasonable cause to believe that another Agent is unfit to carry out his work or is a hazard to the safety of the Dispatch, he must report this without fear of discipline or demotion. Upon receipt of said report, the Agent will be removed from duty pending investigation.’ Call Spectacles and get Pops over here,” she commanded the doctor. “Tell him to bring William’s files.”

“Don’t listen to her!” William ordered. “Agent Sutcliff is being over-dramatic, as usual.”

“Sorry William,” the doctor replied. “Agent Sutcliff is threatening to invoke Regulation 17b. I have to comply. You two wait out here,” he said, showing them out of his office, “while I fetch your file and have a chat with Pops.”

The doctor looked like he was trying to repress a grin and Grell couldn’t help but giggle as William glared at her. “Sorry,” she laughed, “but we look like a couple of school children waiting outside the headmaster’s office.”

“This is not a laughing matter,” William ground out.

“No, it isn’t,” she said quietly. “How could you have said nothing for all this time? How could you have been so stubborn and pigheaded and—and. . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Blind?”

She saw the fear in his expression and remained silent while they waited. Pops cast a glance at her and rolled his eyes on the way into the doctor’s office. It seemed like ages, but, finally, the doctor and Pops emerged.

“This way,” he said, gesturing to an examination room.

As Grell rose to follow them, William exclaimed, “You are not coming in there with me!”

“For pity’s sake,” she retorted, “they’re going to want to know about past collections and injuries. I might be able to recall something you’ve forgotten. I’ll stand behind a screen or something if you’re worried about me seeing you in the altogether.”

“She is correct,” Pops insisted.

She found a spot, out of sight of the examination table, and called out to William while he changed into a hospital gown. “What about when you were knocked from the roof a few years ago? Could you have hit your head?”

“I did _not_ hit my head!”

Reapers didn’t get sick, Grell reflected, but they could be wounded. More than a few had found themselves trapped in a hospital bed for weeks because they had ignored an injury or accident. She could hear the doctor reading from his file.

“A few broken bones and minor cuts over the years. We’ve seen very little of you here. You’ve been very fortunate.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” she said, stepping out from her secluded spot. “William is very skilled and efficient at his job. He might not be quite up to my level,” she grinned, “but–”

The doctor was fingering a scar just below his collar bone about six inches long. “There’s nothing in your file about this,” he said. “When did this happen?”

“I don’t recall,” he muttered. “It must have been a long time ago.”

“That?” Grell burst out. “How can you not remember?” And she went quiet as William fixed his gaze upon her, begging her to be silent.

“It was a few months after graduation. It healed quickly and without pain. I saw no need to seek treatment,” he said firmly.

“But to have left such a scar! It couldn’t have been a human weapon.”

Grell marched over and examined the scar, still angry and red after almost a century. “It wasn’t,” she said.

XXXXXXXXXX

_April 1800_

“The human world is so smelly and dirty,” Grell complained, scraping muck off her new shoes with a stick.

“You’re the one who insists on wearing those ridiculous shoes,” William pointed out. “I don’t know how you manage to walk in them.”

“Really Will, dear,” she said, tossing the stick aside, “not everyone is as dreary as you. Some of us have a little style. Why can’t we be sent to a nice luxurious manor house for a change? This is entirely too squalid.”

“I’ll admit I’m a little tired of this part of London,” he said, surveying the refuse filled streets and alleys, the starving dogs and ragged children, “but we are still on probation. I suppose the senior agents are assigned the country manors and fine town houses.”

“And all of our collections this week have been so dull.”

“Uneventful collections are what Management wants to see. I should have thought the incident last week provided you with enough excitement for a while.”

“Wasn’t it wonderful?” she gushed. “Such a battle. The Record battered me with such brutal force. So thrilling!”

“You endangered yourself unnecessarily. I would have been there as soon as I retrieved my Death Scythe.”

“No matter. We got the soul.”

“ _You_ got the soul,” he muttered. “I am not as adept at close combat as you.”

Grell glanced at him sharply. Was there a hint of resentment in his tone? “You’re not,” she agreed, “but you’re far better than I am at estimating the difficulty of any job.”

“That’s because no job is difficult for you.”

That wasn’t true, but how could she explain that to him? “Anyhow, when our probation is up in a few months, you can go to Death Scythes and choose something that suits you best. Any ideas?”

“Something simple and efficient with range. And you?”

“I have something in mind. I guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it,” she grinned and peered at the street. “I see our subject. Even you said this should be fairly straightforward. Shall we go for a drink afterwards?” As he hesitated, she continued, “Come on, Will! There’s no regulation against agents socializing after hours. Didn’t you enjoy yourself last week?”

“I had no idea such an establishment existed in the realm. I choose the place this time.”

“As long as it’s not like the spot we went for lunch two weeks ago.”

“There was nothing wrong with that place. It was clean and inexpensive.”

“And dull as dishwater,” she interrupted. “I was talking to a fellow who runs this divine little tailor’s shop. I’m getting a new waistcoat made and he was telling me about this new café. We should try it out.”

“Honestly Grell! Should you be wasting your wages on new shoes and drink and fripperies? And isn’t it about time you went for a haircut? People will start mistaking you for female soon.”

Grell smiled, but didn’t reply. She was wearing him down, she was sure. He always made a feeble protest, but he hadn’t refused her invitation yet and that lunch had been his idea. How she loved this existence! She loved her new strength and abilities. She loved being free of the fear that had dogged her during her human life. And—she was beginning to be quite sure—she loved William.

It was far more than the sudden jolt of attraction she had felt during their final exam. She loved breaching the armour of his indifference, to see his rare smile and hear his even rarer dry chuckle. She longed to smooth the worried frown that so often wrinkled his brow, to reassure him when she knew he was uncertain or afraid, to be his friend and helper and partner in every sense of the word.

“It’s almost time. What does the file say about him?” she asked.

“A young man, disappointed in love. He will leap to his death from the London Monument.”

“Oh dear!” she sighed. It was their first suicide. “What a pity. He looks like quite an appealing young fellow.”

“I can’t think of a more foolish reason,” William snorted.

“Can’t you?” she said softly. It was an unwritten rule, she had learned soon after her arrival, never to discuss their reasons or means and never to ask another.

“To commit the gravest of all sins over a matter of the heart is ridiculous.”

“Of course you’d say something like that,” she snapped. “You pretend you don’t have a heart to break.”

For just an instant, his stern expression wavered. “I am not unmoved by this job,” he admitted. “It is—difficult to watch a young man make such a choice, but we cannot allow emotion to cloud our judgement or interfere with our task. Now, he should have completed the climb. We must get down there.”

They leapt from the rooftop to the base of the Monument. An occasional clop of horses’ hooves and rumble of carriage wheels over the cobblestones could be heard, but the sightseers had long since departed. Music and laughter spilled out from the public houses into the darkness as they peered up at the young man, hesitating on the viewing platform.

Don’t do it, Grell thought. Have a change of heart. Come down and go for a pint. Chat up a pretty barmaid and wake up tomorrow ready to go on. She was being foolish; his fate was already decided. Suddenly, her thoughts were pierced by a cry and he tumbled over the railing. She sank her Death Scythe into his chest. His soul yielded itself easily. He must have been truly in despair and quite ready to die. She began to concentrate on the Cinematic Record when she was interrupted by a shout from William.

“Grell! Behind you!”

Her first demon! Laughing wildly, she whirled to face him. His red eyes gleamed, he brandished a short dagger, but he was an indistinct blur of black.

“Get the soul!” William called out. “I’ll take care of him.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw William hurl himself at the fiend. Be careful, she prayed. Just keep him distracted until I’ve captured the Record. But he attempted to cut him down, furiously swinging his Death Scythe while the creature easily slithered from his reach. She had to finish reviewing the Record—a personable young man of modest means who had “borrowed” from his employer in a futile attempt to win the affection of a woman. Disgraced and rejected and facing imprisonment, he had made his terrible choice.

As the last of the Cinematic Record unspooled, she turned to William. He was holding the short handle of his Death Scythe in front of his face, attempting to force the dagger away. The demon’s weapon slid along the handle and plunged down, slicing through his jacket. Grell shrieked with rage at the sight of William’s blood spilling out and threw herself upon him, hacking at the demon over and over again.

Only the sight of his blood could calm her terrible fury as she drove her Death Scythe into his torso, gouging out his entrails. Only his cries could quiet the howling madness that echoed in her skull as she forced the end of her blade into his eye socket and carved a terrible smile on his face. Only the spectacle of him still, beaten and bleeding in a mass at her feet could give her peace.

Still panting and laughing, she rushed to William’s side and pulled his bloodstained shirt open. The wound didn’t appear serious—a shallow gash about six inches long, but it was still oozing blood. “We need to get you to the Infirmary.”

He shook her off. “It’s hardly necessary. It’s not much more than a scratch.”

“It is considerably more than a scratch,” she argued, cutting off her shirttail with her Scythe and attempting to staunch the wound. “It’s from a demonic weapon; it must be checked.”

William took hold of her wrist. “Grell, please! We’re on probation. If Management learn I was injured in my first encounter with a demon, it could be a black mark on my record.”

She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped his face. “I don’t see why. We got the soul. We vanquished the demon.”

“ _You_ got the soul,” he said bitterly. “ _You_ vanquished the demon. I was cut down and wounded.”

“What does it matter who did what?” she sniffed. “We’re partners.”

“I’m begging you. Say nothing about this.”

She couldn’t argue with the desperation and fear in his gaze. “Only if you promise that you will seek treatment if that wound doesn’t heal properly.” She smiled faintly. “I think we both need to clean up and somebody is going to spot this poor fellow soon,” she said glancing at the body at the foot of the Monument. Nothing remained of the demon, but a black smudge and a few smears of blood on the pavement.

“Thank you, Grell,” William murmured. “I am in your debt.”


	2. Chapter 2

But that had marked the end of their burgeoning friendship. From that day, she saw distaste and fear in William’s eyes whenever he looked at her. He had requested advanced combat training and rejected her offers of help, refused all invitations and curtly told her to mind her own business when she inquired about his injury.

She had waited a few months for his wounded pride to subside and, finally, poured her hurt and bewilderment into savage bloodlust. William threw himself into his work. By the end of their probation he was already being groomed for promotion while she became more outrageous and reckless and was labelled the troublemaker of the Dispatch.

And now, William’s eyes were on her again, betraying the same desperation he had shown that day.

“It wasn’t a human weapon,” she finally said. “William and I got into a scuffle one day. I walloped him with my Scythe. We were still on probation. I would have probably been expelled from the Dispatch, but he said nothing.”

“That would explain the scar,” the doctor said. “I would like to do some tests and review the files from Spectacles. I shall also contact the other branches. Perhaps, something like this has shown up elsewhere. Report back here tomorrow.”

Pops looked fondly from one to the other. “You two haven’t changed a bit in nearly a century,” he chuckled, following the doctor from the room.

“Thank you,” William muttered when they were alone.

He looked so awkward and uncomfortable and so much younger in that hospital gown that Grell felt her heart turn over. “I don’t understand why you would feel the need to keep it secret after all these years. I’ll let you change and take you for a drink.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I have to get back to the office.”

She glanced at the clock. “Shift ends in ten minutes. You weren’t contemplating overtime, were you?” she asked with a grin.

“I suppose if I try to refuse you’ll threaten me with Regulation 17b again,” he sighed.

“I just might.”

Twenty minutes later they were in a small bar not far from the Dispatch. A few off-duty reapers couldn’t hide their surprise at the sight of their stern Supervisor and his nemesis seated together, sharing a jug of beer.

Grell smirked as they began to slink out. “I think your presence has rather spoiled their evening or else they’ve all gone off to report that we’re secretly dating.”

“Quite,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “And before you start bombarding me with questions, my eyesight began to deteriorate noticeably about three years ago. I’ve always required new spectacles every few years, but it worsened considerably.”

How well he knew her, she thought. “And the headaches?”

“Occasional, over the years. Sometimes quite severe,” he admitted. “They have become far more frequent in the past year.”

Drawing lines in the condensation on her glass with her fingertip, she asked, “Was your vision always poor? Even in your human life?”

“Very,” he replied, taking a sip. “I required spectacles from the time I was a boy.”

“You don’t suppose that could have anything to do with this, do you?” She repressed a smile, picturing William as a solemn, serious little boy.

“It seems unlikely. I am scarcely the first agent to have had poor eyesight during his human life.”

“Are you frightened?” she asked softly.

William took a large swallow of his beer. “I am naturally distressed to think that something might prevent me from doing my work.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Grell said sharply. “Are you frightened?”

“I am—worried,” he finally confessed.

“Will, dear, I don’t suppose you could call us friends,” she caught and held his gaze for a long moment, “but we have been together since the beginning. If there is anything I can do, you mustn’t hesitate to ask.”

The bar was growing more crowded. Meaningful conversation was almost impossible over the noise. Grell dropped some money on the table and gestured to the door.

They walked in silence for several minutes until they turned into the residential district. “There is one thing you could do for me,” he said, pausing in a yellow pool of light cast by a street lamp. “If—when—it becomes necessary for me to leave the Dispatch, say nothing of this.”

She grasped his arm. “Surely, the doctor will find the cause. You mustn’t give up hope.”

For the first time in nearly a century, he didn’t pull away from her touch. “I must be realistic.” He smiled faintly at her. “This is my street. Good night, Grell,” he said, walking briskly away.

XXXXXXXXXX

A few minutes later, she had turned down her own street, walking slowly as the evening shadows lengthened. Her own home was at the furthest end of the road—a tiny, old house she had acquired a year earlier. It should have been far beyond her means, but the house had been abandoned for years and allowed to deteriorate until it became the neighbourhood eyesore. Which did not stop the residents from protesting loudly when they learned that the notorious Grell Sutcliff was about to move in.

She had put a great deal of time and money into repainting the exterior, replacing the broken windows and shutters and fixing the roof. Her tiny stretch of grass in the front was immaculately maintained and the flowers in the window boxes lovingly tended. She had no parties, entertained no unruly visitors and was rarely seen, except travelling to or from the office or working on the house or in the garden, but her neighbours still regarded her warily and only her fearsome reputation kept some of them civil.

She had almost reached the house when she heard her name being called.

“Agent Sutcliff! Would you look at that!”

The speaker was her immediate next door neighbour, the wife of a mid-level manager in General Affairs. The woman was scowling and pointing at Grell’s house.

“Oh dear!” she sighed, spying the profanities and obscene drawings scrawled on her walls. “Again!”

“It’s just too bad!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms and tapping her foot. “I had just come back from the shops with Dunstan. He’s only a child. He shouldn’t have to see something like this. I had to keep him inside all day.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Evans.” She inspected it more closely. A bucket of water and scrubbing brush would take care of it quickly enough. “I’ll make sure it’s cleaned before little Duncely gets up tomorrow.”

“It’s Dunstan,” she snapped. “Really! This _used_ to be a respectable street.”

She couldn’t blame the woman. Who wanted to live next door to Jack the Ripper? And she was quite sure the culprits were a pair of youths from across the street, who, no doubt, boasted to their friends that they weren’t afraid of the terrifying Agent Sutcliff.

Maybe she should have stayed in the impersonal flat she had been allotted after graduation, but as her classmates moved on and the new inhabitants became younger and younger, she had felt even more of a misfit, awkwardly clutching a glass of wine at their raucous parties—when she was invited—or trying to sleep with a pillow over her head to drown out the noise. This little, unloved house had called out to her when she spotted it and she had looked forward to furnishing the first real home she’d had since her childhood.

Her aunt and uncle had never been cruel. Her cousins were another matter, she thought. And if the tiny inheritance left by her parents had been spent on her upkeep, as they had said, she supposed that had been their right. She’d tried so _hard_ when they had taken her in—to be grateful, not to complain of sly pinches, kicks or vanishing possessions and never to speak of the nighttime visits of their oldest son.

The interior was sparsely furnished. Beyond a few necessities, she had put her energy into restoring the exterior, but she had recently painted the walls and varnished the floors. She anticipated the party she would give when it was complete. The Dispatch would come, lured by the promise of abundant free drink and morbid curiosity to see how she lived.

Would William come? Would he be able to attend? She thought of the blind beggars on the streets of London. It would never come to that. The Council would see he was taken care of, she was sure. But what happened to reapers who could no longer do their work? Could not earn their redemption?

Too worried and distracted to do more than peck at her supper, Grell discarded her waistcoat and fetched a bucket and scrubbing brush. The street was well lit enough, she thought, and set to work.

She was about half-done when she heard snickers from across the road. “You know,” she called out, “it isn’t spelled F-U-K. You forgot the C.” Her Death Scythe appeared in her hand as she whirled to face them, baring her teeth. “And I’d thank you to stay off my property from now on.”

Satisfied that she’d frightened them off, she returned to her task.

“Agent Sutcliff?”

They were standing at the far edge of her garden.

“What?”

“Was that your Death Scythe?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Now go home. Both of you.”

“Can we see it again?”

“No. Go away.” She busied herself scrubbing away a lurid drawing of genitalia next to her door.

“Please! We’ve never seen a real one before.”

“There’s plenty on display at the Library.” She turned her attention to the misspelled obscenity. “You both might benefit from a trip there.”

“But the ones there are boring. Yours is _amazing_.”

“I’ll show it to you all right if the pair of you don’t leave me alone,” she muttered.

“We’ll help you clean it up,” one of them said.

She felt a sudden spurt of sympathy for them. There were so few young people in the realm and, as far as she knew, almost no diversions for them. The rare child was ridiculously spoiled and indulged. What was it like for these boys? No longer to be children, but decades or even centuries away from being considered mature by the Shinigami. They fit into this world little better than she did.

Fetching another brush, she asked, “So, what are your names?”

“I’m Gordon,” said the one who had done all the talking. “He’s Francis.”

“Frank,” he growled.

“And what do you do when you’re not decorating my house? Do you go to school?” What did the children of the Shinigami do with themselves? Were there even schools? Only a handful were born every year. As Gordon rolled his eyes and Frank pulled a face, she took that to mean they did attend some sort of school.

“You’re a Grim Reaper, right?” Gordon asked. “What’s it like?”

“Hard work.”

“But it’s exciting,” Frank interjected. “You get to go to the human world. Have you ever fought a demon?”

“Yes,” she replied, holding back her laughter at the awe on their faces and braced herself for the next question.

“Is it true that you were Jack the Ripper?”

“Yes I was,” she said carefully. “I broke almost every rule of the Dispatch. So don’t start thinking it’s anything to be proud of.”

They had finished. She produced her Death Scythe. “Don’t touch it!” she ordered sharply as they approached. “It could slice your fingers off in a second.”

She allowed them to pester her with questions about it, but refused to be drawn into a discussion about the exact nature of her work. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Thank you for your help cleaning up.”

“Agent Sutcliff?” Frank said. “Have you ever met Undertaker?”

She fingered the faint scar on her cheek ruefully. “Yes. He is not someone to cross,” she said shortly. “Now go home, the pair of you. And for pity’s sake, keep yours mouths shut. Your parents wouldn’t be at all pleased to know you had been talking to me.”

Hopefully, that would put an end to their artistic endeavours, she thought as she went inside. But the boy’s comment about Undertaker tickled something. Undertaker had functioned for years without spectacles. Did he possess some secret knowledge? Something that might aid William?

It was strictly forbidden to contact him, but she had seen a light in his shop when she passed and she was sure she had spotted him walking down the street a year ago. She’d been awfully good lately, she thought, buttoning up her waistcoat and donning her coat—stayed out of trouble for years. But what fun it was to break the rules again!

XXXXXXXXXX

Undertaker’s shop was even dustier and more cluttered than she remembered it. Her Death Scythe at the ready, she called out, “Are you there?”

A high-pitched laugh echoed in the darkness.

“Show yourself, you old fool!” she shouted.

He emerged from the shadows. “Grell Sutcliff! What an unexpected pleasure. Come for a rematch?” His Death Scythe appeared in his hand. “Or were you planning to drag me back to the realm to face discipline? Did dear Willy send you?”

“No one knows I’m here.” She could just make him out in the dimness of the shop, but his extraordinary eyes gleamed. “I need some information.”

“Information, is it?’ he chortled. “You know my price.”

“Really!” she exclaimed. “As if I have nothing better to do than trade jokes with an old lunatic.”

“In that case . . . ” He began to retreat to the back of the shop. “It’s been such a treat, seeing you again.”

He respected honesty; that she knew. Grell dismissed her Scythe and hurried after him, catching him by his sleeve. “Please!” She held her hands out to show she was no longer armed.

Undertaker chuckled softly. “You must be desperate for my help.”

She could see his lips had curled into a smile and a hint of interest in his eyes. “I am,” she admitted. “I swear no one knows I am here. I could get into a great deal of trouble.” Perhaps she should have brought Gordon and Frank along. A few minutes of their relentless questions and he’d be blubbering for rescue.

He nodded and lit a lamp. “I will hear your question. Whether I answer it is another matter.”

Relieved, she leaned against a casket. Undertaker was unnerving enough—the only being who truly made her fearful—but talking to him in the dark was entirely unsettling. “You’ve managed a long time without spectacles,” she said. “How?”

“You _have_ surprised me,” he said. “That’s almost as good as a laugh. Why do you ask? Thinking of retiring—or turning renegade? More so than Jack the Ripper?”

She swallowed her pride. “You bested me. Very few have done that. How did you accomplish that without glasses? Do you have some secret knowledge? If a reaper were losing his sight . . . ”

A flicker of something passed across his face. “You?”

“No, not I. It’s William.”

“William!” He burst out laughing. “Oh poor Willy!”

“Damn you!” she shouted, grabbing the front of his robe and baring her teeth in his face. “It’s not funny, you old ghoul!”

Undertaker smiled inscrutably and drew his fingernail across the scar on her cheek. “Such lovely skin,” he murmured, “and such a shame I marred it. Yet Willy can stomp on your face and you come crawling to me to help him. You only care for men who are cruel to you—William . . . Sebastian . . . _I_ could be cruel to you if you’d like.”

She released him and jerked her head away, trying not to betray her unease. “No doubt, you could, but since you can’t or won’t answer my question, I’ll be on my way.” She opened a portal and stepped into it, Undertaker’s laughter echoing in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist giving Grell an annoying soccer mom as a neighbour.


	3. Chapter 3

Grell was late to arrive at the office the following morning, detained by Security acting on a report that she had been seen threatening two youths with her Death Scythe the night before. Once she managed to convince the officer that she had been merely showing it to two curious boys, she set off.

“What a pity,” she said sweetly to her neighbour, loitering in her garden, “that no one had seen fit to report when they were vandalizing my house.”

“There are children on this street,” the flustered woman replied. “Of course we are going to be concerned.”

“Of course you are,” she said with a baleful grin, “but you can rest easy. Children are of no interest to me—no challenge. Little Dustbin is quite safe.”

She had time to do nothing more than snatch her list of scheduled collections before heading to London. The day passed without incident. A shame, she thought. She would have relished a few resistant souls, could use a good battle to distract herself from her annoyance. She was trying so hard. Even William had noticed and mentioned it on her last evaluation and she had basked in the glow of his rare approval.

The Records that day had all been entirely ordinary. She returned to the office to drop off the files and noticed a stiff white envelope with a black seal lying on her desk.

_Agent Sutcliff,_

_It has been so long since I have received a guest that my surprise upon a visit from a lady quite made me forget my manners. Please call upon me again._

A faint musty odour clung to the paper, tickling her nose. Was he playing some sort of game with her? She should toss the envelope and be grateful she had gotten out of his shop the night before with her skin intact. But the thrill of the forbidden was working its subtle magic on her and Grell was already tingling in anticipation of her next encounter.

Perhaps, it wouldn’t be necessary. She made her way to William’s office and tapped on his door. “Anything?” she asked, walking in without waiting for a response to her knock. “What did the doctors say this morning?”

He rubbed his face tiredly. Grell could see the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He was paler than normal and looked exhausted.

“They found nothing to explain this,” he admitted.

“Oh my dear!” she sighed. “Your head is hurting, isn’t it? At least let me give you a hand with some of that paperwork.”

He must be feeling truly dreadful, she reflected as he pushed a stack of papers in her direction. She couldn’t recall the last time he had accepted her help. Not since their time as probationers.

“Right then,” she said briskly. “I’ll get through this lot and bring it back before I leave.”

“Grell,” he said quietly, just as her hand closed around his door handle.

“Yes dear.”

“When the time comes, will you help me?”

“Of course. Maybe they can get you an extra secretary to help with the paperwork and I can always read reports to you or help you fill out forms.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He adjusted his spectacles and looked her directly in the eye. “Will you _help_ me?”

His true meaning dawned on her. “Oh William!” she gasped.

“I will find a method . . . I will ensure that no blame is attached to you, but I might require some assistance.”

“Dearest Will,” she managed to say, “we have been together since the beginning. If there is no hope, if it is what you truly want, I will be at your side at the end.”

XXXXXXXXXX

It was early afternoon. She had no notion of what Undertaker did these days. He was definitely no longer supplying aid to Sebastian and the brat. She found him in the shop with books scattered about when she strode in.

“Agent Sutcliff,” he said, making her an elaborate bow. “Do forgive my churlish behaviour of last night. I was quite discomposed by a visit from such a lovely lady.”

“Oh, stop it, you old fool!” Grell exclaimed impatiently. “Do you have any useful information for me?”

“Your question and poor William’s dilemma intrigued me,” he answered, pouring her a large earthenware beaker of tea. “Tell me what you know.”

“Not much. Even Pops and the doctors in the realm have no idea.” Quickly, she told him everything.

She waited in uncomfortable silence while he tapped his nail against his teeth and leafed through several books. An occasional creak could be heard from the depths of the shop. She decided she’d rather not know what it might be and she was sure she could hear mice scuttling about their feet.

“They’ve investigated head injuries and wounds, I suppose?”

“Yes. I dragged him to the Infirmary myself.”

“What about poison?”

“Poison! Aren’t we immune?”

“To human poisons, yes. Demonic poisons are something else.”

“Good heavens!” she cried. “William received a wound from a demon weapon right after we graduated. Wouldn’t it have shown its effects by now?”

Undertaker picked up another book and turned the pages thoughtfully. “Demonic poisons can be very subtle. They do not work in the way you are thinking.”

“I don’t understand. What’s the point of a poison that doesn’t kill?”

“Some do. Quite quickly. Others can take years and then there are a few . . . How severe was the wound?”

“It was quite nasty. He bled for a long time afterwards and he still has a horrible scar, here,” she said, drawing her finger under her collar bone.

He began to laugh. “So you finally succeeded. Did you get him drunk?”

Grell began to grow hot with anger and embarrassment. “Keep your nasty ideas to yourself, old man! I saw the scar when we were in the Infirmary.” Her ears were burning. Did _everyone_ know what a fool she’d made of herself over the years? And did _everyone_ think that advances from her were laughable and repulsive, she thought wistfully. She shook out her hair and stood. “So it’s demon poison, most likely. I’ll tell the doctors immediately.”

“Except there is no cure. Not in the realm. Please sit, Agent Sutcliff. Once again, I apologize for offending you.” He pushed back his hair and smiled at her.

Rolling her eyes, she resumed her seat. “Are you saying there’s a cure in the human world?”

“There might be. Pour yourself another cup of tea and have a biscuit while I consult my books.”

She gazed about the shop. Cobwebs hung in thick swags in every corner. The liquid from the jars of pickled organs she remembered had dried out, making the desiccated lumps of flesh rattling around in their containers seem even more ghoulish. A clock on a shelf was curiously silent. Had time stopped for him since he’d revealed himself?

He seemed to read her thoughts. “You know, the one thing I miss is being able to visit the Library. I have a vague recollection of something that might be of some use, but I need access to these books.”

Staring at the long list he passed to her, she said, “Some of these are very old and heavily guarded—knowledge that is not shared.”

“If it were knowledge that is easily gained, you wouldn’t be here. There’s an old fellow in the Archives—even older than I am. Ask for Arias. He will help you.”

“Or he’ll have me thrown from the Library for daring to ask for such things.”

“He has spent his entire existence preserving this knowledge for when the time was right. If there is a cure, it will be among these volumes. I’ll leave it up to you to convince him that this is the right time.”

XXXXXXXXXX

She managed to repress a groan at the sight of Gordon and Frank, accompanied by another larger boy, loitering at the end of her garden when she returned.

“Agent Sutcliff!” Gordon exclaimed. “This is Hugh.”

“Er—hello,” she replied, thinking that she had spoken to youngsters more in the past day than she had in her entire existence in the realm.

“You see?” Frank said. “I told you we were neighbours.”

The youth grunted and stared insolently at her, but she could see the uneasiness in his eyes.

“And Agent Sutcliff let us see his—her Death Scythe.”

She noticed the reddened patch on Gordon’s arm, recalled her cousin grasping her arm and twisting the skin until it burned and bruised, saw the broken strap on Frank’s book bag and understood.

“That’s right,” she said, her mouth curling into a fearsome grin, “but I only show it to my friends.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment. “That’s not quite true. People who aren’t my friends see it, too, sometimes. But you wouldn’t enjoy that, would you, Hugh?”

“N–no,” he stammered.

“I thought as much, so let’s make sure that you have no cause to find out,” she said with a significant glance at the grinning pair.

As soon as he hurried away, muttering something about school work, she turned to them. “I suppose you threatened to set Jack the Ripper on him. Glad to have been of service. Now, I have things I need to do.”

She watched them cross the street to sit listlessly on the curb. Really! Did the Shinigami provide no amusement for their young people? Spoil and indulge them hopelessly as infants and ignore them when they became awkward youths? No wonder they engaged in vandalism and bullying. She was reminded of puppies, outgrown their cuteness to be merely tolerated later and made a quick decision.

“Perhaps you two could do me a favour,” she said, crossing over to where they sat.

“Really?” Gordon’s eyes lit up. “Can we come on a collection with you?”

“Certainly not. Let me speak to your parents first. I don’t need another visit from Security or Little Dumdum’s mother telling everyone I kidnapped you.”

“Little Dumdum!” Frank snorted. “Good one, Agent Sutcliff.”

She didn’t recognize the man who answered the door, but the bureaucracy of the realm was vast.

“Agent Sutcliff,” he said, not bothering to conceal his annoyance, “has Gordon been bothering you? He’s been told to stay away from you. I’ll have a word with Francis’s parents as well.”

“Not at all,” she said sweetly. “In fact, I was hoping they could help me out with something. You must have heard of the new programme instituted by the Dispatch. No?” she exclaimed as he frowned in puzzlement. “I must have a word with William. Public Relations are really falling down on the job these days. Anyhow, it’s called Grim Reapers Care. It’s a community service programme.”

“Grim Reapers Care? Really?”

“Why yes.” She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “I’ve been chosen as a Shinigami Youth Mentor and I would just love to borrow these boys for a couple of hours. Please say yes. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?” she added with a steely glare.

“Well . . . ”

“Then that’s settled,” she giggled. “You’ll let Frank’s mother know he’s in good hands, won’t you? I’ll have them back before dark. Come along boys.”

“Are we really going to help you?” Frank asked as they hurried down the street behind her.

“Are we going to the human world?”

“Of course not. We’re going to the Library.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell was not a regular visitor to the Library and she could feel many eyes upon her while she made her way to Archives, especially with a pair of boys in her wake. Arias was easier to find than she had thought, fully expecting to have to descend into the bowels of the vast structure, following an endless maze of corridors and stairs.

He was also far more genial and easygoing than she had imagined, chuckling that no one had sought him out for years. He studied the list she gave him. “I haven’t seen this handwriting in a long time,” he said quietly. “Is he well?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she said blandly. “Contact with him is forbidden.”

“You are correct. You must need this very badly. Most of these, I can find for you, but some . . . ”

She waved her hand impatiently. “I know—forbidden, dangerous and so on. What’s the point of preserving knowledge if it can’t be shared.”

“To guard it from the wrong hands.”

“But you’re allowed to read these books,” Gordon pointed out. “Agent Sutcliff’s the best reaper in the realm. Why shouldn’t he—she be allowed to see them?”

“Agent Sutcliff is the most skilled collector in the Dispatch today, I agree, but there is a great deal more to being Shinigami than mere skill in the field,” he said, glancing at the paper in his hand. “Why do you want these so badly?”

She couldn’t betray William’s confidence. “One of us,” she said carefully, “is in grave danger of losing his means of redemption. It has been suggested that an answer to what ails him might be in one of these books.”

“Very well. Perhaps your young friends might aid me in retrieving some of them. Save an old man climbing up and down the ladders.”

“That’s why I brought them,” she giggled.

“I hope, for your friend’s sake, you find the answer, but I should warn you–”

Grell rolled her eyes. “Dangerous knowledge, etcetera. I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” He peered closely at her, his eyes unfathomable behind his rimless spectacles. “These are very arcane matters—belonging to a realm beyond our own. You will be tampering with powers outside of our understanding.”

Why did the Shinigami Elders have to make everything sound so dire she grumbled to herself as they left the Library a half-hour later, Gordon and Frank staggering under the weight of the books they were carrying.

“Are we going to have to carry these all the way home?” Frank complained.

It was quite a walk, considering their burdens. She glanced around and led them behind an ornamental shrub. “Hang on, boys,” she said, opening a portal and pulling them through.

“That was _amazing_!” Gordon exclaimed when they landed in front of her house. “Do it again!”

“No,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Don’t say a word to anyone about it.” Travelling by portal inside the realm wasn’t strictly forbidden, but it was frowned upon and she was sure that taking two boys with her would be even more so, but those books looked awfully heavy. “You can carry the books inside for me and then go home.”

“Can we go with you again?”

They looked so eager. She felt an unexpected tingle of warmth. When was the last time someone had wanted to be in her company?

“Maybe. I’m going to have to haul them all back somehow,” she said with a smile.

XXXXXXXXXX

On waking, William could pretend, for a moment, that everything was fine, that, as soon as his spectacles were resting on his nose, the greyish fog that surrounded him would clear. The worst of it was that, some days, it was almost heartbreakingly true. Sometimes, for a few hours or a day, the mist would clear, almost to the point of normality, only to engulf him again.

He almost wished for a steady decline—some way to monitor and prepare himself for the inevitable. Instead, he was tormented by days when his sight improved and deteriorated almost hourly like clouds scudding across the moon and days when a fraction of his vision—as if from the corner of his eye—was of crystal clarity and he constantly jerked his head from side to side, desperately trying to catch at it.

This day wasn’t too bad; the awful, throbbing headache of the day before had subsided. He could read the reports on his desk without too much difficulty; things seemed vague and formless only around the edge of his vision.

Grell had slipped into his office and was leaning against the closed door, nervously scratching her forearm.

“Now William,” she began, “don’t be angry with me.”

He sighed and adjusted his glasses. What had she done now? A statement like that boded no good. But she looked tired and pale, restless and haunted.

“You _must_ tell the doctors that you received a wound from a demonic weapon. I—er, did a little reading on the subject. If you don’t, I will.”

She looked like she was bracing herself for a blow from his Death Scythe. “Honestly Grell!” he snorted. “I’m not a complete fool. I told them yesterday.” He flushed uncomfortably, remembering his embarrassment over the confession and admission that Grell had lied to protect him. “The doctors are investigating demon poisons now.” No point in telling her that they had admitted they knew almost nothing about them.

“There is a demon we could ask.” She began to twirl a lock of hair around her finger. “I haven’t seen dearest Bassy in ages.”

So she hadn’t attempted to keep in contact with the demon. He wondered, not for the first time, about the true nature of her feelings for him. “Absolutely not!” he thundered. “I would rather go blind!”

“Would you?” she shouted, crossing over to slam her hands on his desk. “You listen to me, William T. Spears! This entire business is the result of your stupid pride. _You_ insisted on dealing with the demon yourself although I was far better equipped to do so back then. _You_ refused to seek treatment when the wound was fresh.”

She was panting with fury, almost snarling with rage. “You know, I read last night that some demon poisons work by striking at the weakest point. They find that part of you that is most vulnerable and exploit it until it brings you down. I thought it was your vision, but now I know it’s your pride. It turned you into a block of stone.”

Her face was inches from his, her teeth bared. “You are selfish and pigheaded and swollen with pride and conceit,” she hissed. “You turned your back on me—your partner, your friend!” She was clawing furiously at the left sleeve of her coat, her face contorted into an ugly rictus of anger.

“Stop it, Grell!” William said quietly, trying to ignore the sour resentment that flooded him, the bile that threatened to choke him as he recognized the truth in her words. He would not surrender to his own anger. There was only one way to stop her tirade. “This is hardly the time for one of your ridiculous declarations. You were never my friend,” he said scornfully. “Only a freak who has given me nothing but grief for more than ninety years.”

She turned white, bit her lip so hard that blood trickled down her chin and backed away as if fearing a blow. “One day, William,” she muttered, groping blindly for the door handle, “you’ll wish you hadn’t said that.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Thank heavens the street was deserted, she thought on her walk home. She was in no mood to spar with little Dimwit’s mother or deal with Gordon and Frank.

She had been a fool to approach William, but, after a sleepless night, trying to read the books she had borrowed, she was frightened and understood the warning of the old Archivist and why these volumes were so heavily guarded. Frightened enough to hope that informing the doctors of the possibility of demon poison would be enough. Frightened of allying herself with the old lunatic mortician and tampering with forces outside of the laws of the realm.

She’d had no intention of seeking out Sebastian, had no idea where to find him. She had seen no sign of him or the earl for years. Perhaps the contract was completed and Sebastian, sated and fed, was fattening another soul. Outside of her collections, she had no interest in the human world, reaped souls without emotion or error, she told herself fiercely.

She had tried so hard to be good, tried so hard to stay out of trouble, to cause no disruption, to settle down, to fit in, to be happy. Just like in her human life and she had failed over and over again. Maybe it was time to give up, she thought, fingering her Death Scythe lovingly while she sipped a large drink. Find an anonymous flat in some part of the town where even the infamous red reaper wouldn’t cause much of a stir. There were a few such neighbourhoods, even in the realm.

Leave William to his own devices and become the freak he believed her to be. It was odd how that word hurt. She’d been called plenty worse in this and her former existence. Laughed it off or fought back—it didn’t matter; it changed nothing. The tendrils of madness brushed her mind again as she carefully cleaned the angry, red scratches on her left forearm. The antiseptic stung and burned, but she laughed softly. The name of Jack the Ripper was still whispered throughout London. Anytime a mangled corpse was found, whenever the murder scene was painted glorious red, every single time a dismembered body appeared. Maybe it was time for those whispers to become a roar.


	4. Chapter 4

An hour later, she had dumped all the books onto a table in Undertaker’s shop. “The answer had better be in here,” she grumbled. “I almost broke my back dragging them over.”

“Arias gave you no trouble?”

“He was reluctant. Tried to frighten me with a lot of blather about dangerous knowledge,” she said with a brittle laugh.

“But you’re not frightened,” he sneered softly, taking her chin between his fingers. “You have circles under your lovely eyes. A sleepless night perhaps? You’ve had more than one strong drink, I can tell.”

She jerked her head away in annoyance. “Mind your own business, old man! Perhaps I had company,” she leered.

“Or perhaps you are beginning to understand what approaching me might mean?”

His green-gold eyes blazed. He despised liars, she knew and sighed. “I am—uncomfortable,” she admitted. “I don’t understand half of what’s in those books, but even I can tell that we’re venturing into things that are—odd.”

“To some, perhaps,” he chuckled. “Have a seat and I shall try to explain.”

Ostentatiously brushing cobwebs from a chair, she sat down. “Why have you agreed to help me? It must be more than simple boredom.”

“Maybe I hope to gain something,” he grinned. “You have brought me some very valuable information—that might serve my own purposes.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, smothering a quiver of fear.

“But, in your eagerness to come to poor William’s rescue, you didn’t think of what you might be providing me.”

“N–no.” She set her teeth. It didn’t matter; she was done with behaving herself. But if she became known as an ally of the renegade . . .

“The discipline will be severe. Far worse than what you received over the Ripper,” he said, reading her thoughts.

“It won’t matter,” she replied firmly. It wouldn’t for she would have earned the disgust and scorn she had seen on William’s face earlier, she thought, her fingers digging into her arm.

“How much attention did you pay, in training, to talk of realms other than the human world or that in which the Dispatch functions?”

“Not much,” she confessed. “I was far more interested in the practical. They spoke of the demonic realm, of course, and . . . ”

“The Heavenly Kingdom? What else?”

“I don’t recall.”

He sighed. “The world was much younger, much more primal and natural when I underwent training. Men believed in things that are dismissed as legends today. Witchcraft . . . magic . . . fantastic creatures. The veil between the worlds was thinner. Sometimes it lifted for an instant to allow a glimpse of what lay beyond.”

“Are you saying that these legends are true? That magic really exists?”

“What is magic, my dear? To an inhabitant of the South Sea Islands, the gaslights shining on the streets today might be considered magical. Now, give me a day to look through all this and come see me tomorrow. I _do_ enjoy your visits.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Whitechapel never changed, Grell thought, crouching on the roof of the Blue Coat Boy Public House on Dorset Street. Still filthy, still teeming with ragged children, still stinking of refuse and, all around, the oppressive miasma of poverty. But that’s what she had counted on. One or two of this reeking, grubby mob would never be missed.

Her breath was coming in short gasps; she could feel her blood singing, calling out to see a spreading pool of crimson on the grimy cobblestones, could feel the dark heat in her loins. She raked the scene below with a contemptuous glance. Him—lurching out of the pub, his shirt torn and dirty, knuckles bruised and bleeding. But a boy approached him. Even from her vantage point, she could see genuine affection when he tousled the child’s hair and took his hand and heard a childish voice saying, “Come on, dad. Let’s get you home.”

An old fishwife, snoring in a heap on the ground. She’d be doing her a favour in ending her miserable existence. Her attention was caught by a loud shriek. She watched a dishevelled woman stumble after a man, who gave her a vicious shove, saw her bleeding nose and swollen jaw. Heard her cursing him as he strode away with a laugh.

Perfect! Even better when he slipped into an alley and began to fumble with his flies. She’d cut him down while he relieved himself. Leave him exposed for all to see in a stinking puddle of his own piss. Her finger caressed the switch of her Death Scythe when the moonlight behind her was blotted out by a shadow.

“Agent Sutcliff,” said a soft voice, “whatever it is you are contemplating, think twice.”

He was silhouetted against the moon, the streamer on his hat fluttering behind him.

“How did you guess?” she asked sulkily.

“You were like a cat, ready to spring, the entire time you were at the shop. Your cheeks were flushed and your eyes were glittering, ready for battle, like they were when we met on the high seas. I could smell the need . . . the hunger on you.” Undertaker helped her to her feet. “There are other ways of assuaging that hunger, you know.” His thumb traced the scar on her cheek.

There were. He could take her in one of the alleys below, her back against the soot-stained bricks until she was bruised and scraped and raw. She was panting harshly. Or he could carry her back to the shop, where they would twine themselves around each other inside one of those dusty caskets until the wild heat burnt itself out like a spent candle.

She shivered voluptuously, but stepped back from his reach. “Sorry, darling,” she laughed. It sounded artificial and false. “It’s awfully tempting, but I think we’d end out trying to kill one another.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured with a smile, “but think what fun we’d have doing it.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Chained to her desk. Mountains of paperwork and old reports, all curtly marked “Incomplete” or “Unsatisfactory.” William was punishing her for her outburst of the previous day, keeping her away from the field. An errant thought, one she always pushed firmly away, struggled to the surface. She would never have William’s ability to fill out a report concisely and quickly—it never seemed important enough to her. She would never be able to grasp the torturous trail of forms required to file an Incident Report or remember what had to be submitted in duplicate to which department, who should be copied on what memo. But William would never match her skill in collecting. And whenever she acted out, he inundated her with work where she could never shine as if to underscore her weaknesses.

A few months ago, she had returned, trembling with fatigue, from four days of constant reaping after an accident in a coal mine in Wales. Dozens of souls collected and six demons, drawn by the misery and stench of death, vanquished. Even Management had been impressed; the rest of the Dispatch had assured her she would receive a rare, written commendation. William had muttered “Well done” and sent her home to rest. And the following morning, every single report was waiting on her desk with a typewritten note from William’s secretary politely requesting they be redone as they were unacceptable in their current state.

So, why then, was she risking her career, her redemption, her _soul_ for him? How could she still love him after decades of blows, kicks and hurtful words? After the scorn he had directed her way the day before? Why would she have spent close to a century cherishing the memory of the companionship they had shared for a few weeks after their graduation?

“ _You only care for men who are cruel to you_.” Undertaker’s words echoed in her head while she struggled not to tear off the fresh bandage on her arm and dig her nails into her flesh.

But he had spoken on her behalf after Jack the Ripper—pointed out that she had not worked alone. He had not let Sebastian finish her off. He had overlooked dozens of minor infractions, not forced her into regulation attire and had insisted that her colleagues treat her with at least the outward show of respect due a senior agent.

And that was why she would continue on her current path. He didn’t understand her—probably never would, but he had never tried to change her.

She had been hard at work for several hours when interrupted by a tap on her office door. William walked in slowly. Watching him, she realized that all his movements for the past several months had been careful and deliberate. To anyone else they appeared the actions of a man who did nothing without thinking, but now she _knew_. His expression was unreadable, aloof and stern as always.

“Grell,” he said, “I just received the most extraordinary communication from the Headmaster of the school, requesting additional Shinigami Youth Mentors. Since you seem to know all about it, perhaps you would care to enlighten me.”

She stifled a giggle. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “You’re making me nervous, hovering over my desk like that. It might take a little explaining.” Deciding that a judicious sprinkling of the truth might be best, she continued, “A couple of boys on my street, with far too much free time, decided to vandalize my house.”

“Why didn’t you make a report? You’re a senior agent, a Grim Reaper. I know the children of the realm are ridiculously spoiled, but they must learn respect.”

“Because they’re a pair of bored and restless boys who wanted to boast to their friends that they weren’t afraid of Jack the Ripper,” she grinned. “Involving Security would have solved nothing so I asked their parents’ permission to borrow them for—an errand I needed to run. I might have made up a tiny little story to enlist their cooperation.”

“That was very generous of you to recognize that they really meant no harm.” He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his glasses. “And, er—about yesterday–”

“Think nothing of it,” she said dismissively. “I spoke out of turn.”

“No, Grell,” he said quietly, “I spoke out of turn. You’ve been very kind and discreet since learning of this. I do appreciate your concern.”

She nodded, unsure what to say.

“I suppose you imagine I piled all these reports on you as punishment for your words yesterday.” He smiled faintly. “Believe it or not, I do care about your welfare. I’ve known you for a long time and I know what you are capable of when angered. It seemed—safer to keep you close to the office for a day.”

Most of the madness of the night before had passed, although she had paced restlessly around her house for hours until the bright, hot fury had subsided. She thought back to the days she had been confined to her desk—days when she had been tired, foolish or angry and had finished them out too drained by the utter dreariness of endless paperwork to do more than return home and sleep.

“Oh William,” she sighed. “We’ve known each other for ninety years, but sometimes I think we don’t know each other at all.” She leaned forward to peer at him. His usually flinty eyes were clouded and dull. “Is it—is it very bad today?” she asked.

“The worst yet,” he admitted. “Pops and the doctors examined me again this morning. They’re saying a week at the most.”

“Oh!” Grell gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Someone from Management will come in tomorrow to start overseeing things until a replacement can be found. Try not to make his life too difficult, will you?”

“But what will happen to you?” she cried.

“Once my usefulness to the Dispatch is ended there will be only one thing left for me to do. To accomplish, once and for all, what I failed to do in my human existence.”

She had said she would help him and would not back down, but . . . “And I shall help you as I agreed,” she said softly, “but will you promise me one thing? Don’t take any action immediately. The doctors are still looking at demonic poisons. Pops is working day and night. The answer may be there, just beyond our reach at the moment.”

“A magical spell? A potion? A miracle?”

“What is magic, really?” she asked. “Something that we simply don’t understand today. Something as unlikely as the partnership—and friendship we once shared.”

XXXXXXXXXX

William had even smiled and made a joke before leaving her office, Grell reflected on the walk home. When she had laughingly suggested that he submit Ronald’s name as a possible Shinigami Youth Mentor, he had smiled, really smiled at her for the first time in nearly a century and threatened to tell the headmaster that she was in charge of the Grim Reapers Care initiative, that all queries and requests were to be directed to Agent Sutcliff.

“It would serve you right,” he’d said. “I’ll tell him how anxious you are to come to the school and deliver a talk to the students. That there will be Grim Repercussions for any student who stays away.”

She had groaned and they laughed together for the first time in decades.

She was almost home when she spotted Gordon and Frank, struggling with a pair of hedge clippers almost as large as they were.

“What on earth are you two up to?”

“Chores,” Frank grumbled.

“The old man at the Library said we could come back,” Gordon added. “He promised to show us William Wallace’s Cinematic Record. He was hung, drawn and quartered, you know.” His eyes lit up.

“But we have to trim the hedge first,” Frank complained.

Grell glanced around. “It would be a shame to keep you from such an entertaining spectacle,” she grinned and produced her Death Scythe.

“Really, Agent Sutcliff,” her neighbour protested a few minutes later as Grell waved at the retreating forms of the boys, “should you be brandishing that weapon around children?”

“But Mrs Evans, I was merely doing a favour for a neighbour,” she replied sweetly. “I couldn’t help but notice that some of your bushes are looking a little ragged. Would you like me to touch them up?”

“Of course not! But I must insist that you keep that thing out of sight. You’re frightening Dunstan.”

She cast a look at the child, his nose pressed against the window, his tongue poking out at her. He didn’t look too frightened to her, but answered, “Very well. I promise not to produce it in front of little Duncecap.”

The woman spun on her heel and stamped into the house as Grell raised her hand to her mouth in the gesture she had used to taunt Sebastian and stuck her tongue back out at the little boy.

XXXXXXXXXX

She tried not to betray her impatience, tried not to let her uneasiness show. The silver-haired reaper was far too perceptive for her liking. He had greeted her with a sardonic smile and told her to wait while he made tea. She peered at the books spread out open on the table, trying to make sense of what she could read.

“Now, my dear,” he said, sitting opposite her, “I have spent the day studying these books, looking for tales of healing the blind. Many, I have been forced to discount completely and some are impossible for practical reasons. Such as in the Scriptures, the Son cured a blind man by mixing His spittle with mud and applying it to his eyes.”

“I can see that particular ingredient would not be easily obtained,” she grinned.

“Quite. Nor would the first tear of a newborn child. There are certain springs and other bodies of water said to have curative properties, but they may no longer exist and transporting William could pose some difficulty. I believe this is our best hope,” he said, pushing a book over to her.

Grell scowled at the almost indecipherable script written in ink so faded as to be nearly invisible. “It’s Greek, isn’t it? I can’t make out a word, but I wasn’t much of a scholar.”

“This particular volume is almost two thousand years old, written by the Greek physician Dioscorides. This passage discusses stones, found in the entrails of swallows, that when burnt in a ceramic pot and combined with honey, will restore sight.”

“So, should I find a few swallows to eviscerate?”

“Not quite, but this is a starting point. Precisely what stone it is, I have not been able to discover.”

“Oh.” She sagged in disappointment in her chair.

“But I have found an old tale describing how these pebbles might be gathered. When the eggs are hatched, the mother swallow will find the stone near a river and rub it against the blind eyes of her nestlings. According to the legend, she can be tricked into dropping the stone.”

“How?”

“It’s quite fortunate, Agent Sutcliff. The calendar is in your favour. The swallows are hatching right now. Another few weeks and you would have had to wait a full year.”

“But how is the mother tricked? And don’t you think it’s time you started calling me Grell?”

“If you’d like. I suppose the time for formality has passed. And, once again, you are fortunate. The mother is tricked to believe the ground beneath the tree is on fire. This is accomplished by spreading out a scarlet cloth under the tree.”

“If I find a swallow’s nest and spread my coat underneath, she’ll drop the stone!” Grell cried.

“It may not be that simple or easy.”

“Maybe not,” she laughed, “but definitely easier than showing up at a childbirth to steal the baby’s first tear.”

“The common swallow does not usually nest in trees,” he said, handing her a copy of _A History of British Birds_. “You will have to seek out a portal to one of the ancient realms. Much as we can travel between our realm and this world, there are gates to others, much older.”

“Oh dear. I don’t suppose you know where these are, do you?”

“I know of one. Have you ever heard of the Wild Hunt?”

“Some horde of ghostly hunters, aren’t they?”

“Correct. Sightings have been reported for centuries throughout Britain and the rest of Europe.”

“Pooh!” Grell snorted, waving her hand. “It was most likely poachers or such.”

Undertaker sighed, fixing her with a steely glare. “Sometimes I forget how young you really are. You were quite young when you left your human existence and have been in your present form for less than a century. Have you not, since you came to the realm, seen and learned of things that should not be? Your very current existence should be impossible.”

She quailed under his gaze, felt herself grow red with embarrassment and ducked her head. “Yes,” she muttered. “I’m sorry, but what makes you believe that it can be true?”

“Because I have witnessed it.”

Had anyone else said such a thing she would have burst out laughing, but there was no mockery in his expression. She would never understand the enigmatic figure sitting opposite her, but she knew he would not lie to her.

“It was two centuries ago,” he continued. “I had been sent to collect the soul of a young man who had hanged himself deep in the woods in the west country. Wistman’s Wood is very old and can seem quite unearthly under normal circumstances. I was convinced I was going mad for a moment. None of us like to deal with a suicide and his Record had been quite disturbing, but I saw them—a host of ghostlike horsemen and hounds, thundering through the wood. They rode past me; they rode through me.” He stared off into the distance for a moment. “It was like being touched by ice—a cold so intense it burned and they disappeared as if through an unseen door.”

“And you think this might be an entrance to one of these other realms?” she finally asked.

“I am sure it is. Whether you will find what you seek is another matter. And the portal may no longer exist. The human world has expanded and changed so much. These other worlds have retreated further, become more remote than when I was younger.”

“You never returned?”

“To that precise spot? I never dared.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “This is the place where I made the collection. I have described the area as much as I can recall. You must look for a rock shaped like a pyramid. In front of it is another; the moss had been scraped away to draw a circle, with another circle scraped off inside. It resembles a target,” he said with a smile. “The huntsmen disappeared just beyond that point.”

“Why are you helping me?” she asked again. “Why are you telling me this? William’s welfare is of no concern to you. You have the books you wanted. What was to prevent you from sending me off to hunt swallows throughout the Kingdom while you found what you need?”

“I am very old,” he said after a long silence. “One of the oldest still living of our kind. I have seen the Dispatch become a machine as soulless as the great contraptions that are springing up everywhere these days. Perhaps, I need to know that some of us still understand that a world of wonders exists, marvellous things beyond our comprehension, things that most of us are too blind to see and too dull to seek out.”

Why did he leave the Dispatch, she wondered. What turned him against the Shinigami?

“They call me a renegade, a seceder,” he continued. “You have started down that path yourself. I think the Ripper proves that. You question and laugh at the conventions and rules of this existence as I do. Perhaps, it amuses me to see how far down this path you can be led.”

Grell swallowed hard. He knew what it was to lie awake, to fight the compulsion to fall into the abyss, to cling desperately to a love, no matter how hopeless, rather than surrender to the monster within. But he had failed. What love had failed or betrayed him? Drove him to commit acts that flew in the face of the Higher Up after serving the Will for centuries?

“Do you ever regret your choices?” she dared to ask.

“Do you regret Jack the Ripper?” he retorted, his eyes blazing. “Do you wish you had never allied yourself with Madam Red?”

Did she? She closed her eyes and, for an instant, recalled prowling the streets those sweltering nights at Angelina’s side. Remembered the sharp, clawing pleasure as the blood flowed, the twisted joy and dark anticipation and shook her head. “No. Nor do I regret killing her.”

“And that frightens you. You know what it is to give rein to your truest, deepest self. That part we keep hidden.” He pushed back his hair and smiled at her. “You’ve tasted it once. You came close again last night. The idea both intoxicates and repels you.”

She was drowning in those luminous green eyes, mesmerized by his quiet voice. In a minute she’d be begging him to take her in, to teach her how to live unfettered and remorseless as he did.

“But enough idle chatter,” he said abruptly. “I have so few opportunities for conversation these days I’m afraid I become quite carried away by the sound of my own voice. There are a few other ingredients I shall require. Some, I have; the others, I can obtain without difficulty.”

“How many of these stones will you need?”

“Five or six.”

“Perhaps I’d better borrow that bird book and read up about swallows. I know very little about birds and I’d hate to waste my time chasing the wrong sort.”

“Good idea,” he answered. “There are several breeds of swallows, but, from what I could gather, this legend applies to the European. Don’t waste your time with the African swallow.”

“Gracious,” she grumbled. “What’s the difference between a European and African swallow?”

“Something about their air speed velocity, I believe.”

“Then I’ll be off,” she said, snatching up the book and paper. “I must get some sleep if I’m to go looking for fairyland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dioscorides published _De Materia Medica_ around 50 to 70 CE.
> 
> The legend of the swallow dropping a pebble when frightened by a scarlet cloth is taken from _Folktales of Normandy_ and altered slightly for my purposes. Officially, the person seeking the stone would blind the nestlings, but I won't make Grell poke the eyes out of baby birds-not even for William's sake.
> 
> And sorry, but I couldn't resist the Monty Python reference.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life and work have been nuts the past few months. I haven't had time to read or write anything since the summer.

The office seemed oddly unsettled when Grell arrived the following morning. Two or three grim-faced Management types were conferring with the secretaries and clerks and agents wandered about without direction.

“What on earth is going on?” she muttered to Ronald as a grey-haired man emerged from William’s office.

“It’s the boss,” he replied. “He didn’t show up this morning. You know he’s never been even one minute late.” He winced when Grell’s hand closed around his arm.

She felt herself grow cold, felt an awful gnawing pit form in her stomach. The older man looked vaguely familiar.

He held up his hands. “If I might have your attention. Supervisor Spears will be away from the office for the next little while. He is engaged in a special task at the behest of the Dispatch.”

A sigh of relief escaped her. At least they were not making his troubles known yet.

“I am Augustus Northrop. I will be acting in his place for the time being. I apologize for the suddenness of all this.” He gestured to Grell. “Agent Sutcliff, I need to have a word with you. The rest of you have your schedules.”

She followed him into William’s office and took a seat at his request, noticing that he chose to lean against the desk while speaking to her, rather than occupying William’s chair.

“How bad is it?” she asked bluntly. “Where is he now? How is he?”

“He made a call early this morning when he realized he would not be able to go to the office today. He is under observation in the Infirmary right now. I understand that you are the only one here who knows of his situation.”

“May I see him?”

“Of course. In fact, he asked that you visit him. He seems very calm and collected, but . . . ” His voice trailed off. “You’ve known him since the beginning. I think a visit from you would raise his spirits.”

She knew why he wanted to see her. “What will happen to him?”

“He is being kept under observation for a day or two while they run more tests. Then he will be sent home with a nurse until it is believed he can function on his own. We are not giving up hope, but we are looking for another occupation for him—something that will allow him to be useful.”

So, she had a week or two at the most until he would be demanding that she make good her promise. She glanced at her file of scheduled collections. “My first job isn’t until this afternoon. I’ll drop by the Infirmary right now.”

“That is very kind of you. I know your relationship with Spears has been volatile over the years.”

Finally, she placed him. A senior agent who had been transferred to General Affairs around the time of their graduation. Little Dungheap’s father worked below him. “That’s a charitable description,” she grinned, absently rubbing her palm against her forearm, “but we’ve been colleagues a long time. Perhaps, I can find some distractions for him. He must be perishing with boredom.”

After a quick trip to her office to retrieve an item hidden in a drawer of her desk, she made her way to the Infirmary.

“We gave him a mild sedative to do the tests this morning,” said the nurse, ushering her into his room. “He might be a little groggy.”

He looked so young and vulnerable in his hospital gown, his hair rumpled, with bits of sticking plaster on his arms and a heavy dressing over the old wound. His eyes were unfocussed, but he sat bolt upright at her entrance. “Grell?”

“You could tell it was I?”

Falling back onto the pillow, he muttered, “You smell nice . . . Always did.”

“Really William!” she exclaimed with a forced laugh. “ _Now_ you start lavishing me with compliments?” She sat next to the bed. “How bad is it?” she asked, keeping her tone brisk and casual.

“Dim outlines . . . shadows,” he mumbled. He sat up again, struggling to throw off the effects of the drugs. “Remember your promise.”

She surveyed the chilly whiteness of the small room and inhaled the tang of antiseptic. “I won’t forget,” she said quietly, placing the object she had brought from her office in his hand. “Do you remember these?”

William fingered the tiny scissors, unlawfully kept after one of her demotions. “I will wait,” he said. His voice was thick and he formed the words carefully as if his tongue were swollen. “Until they have released me and believe I no longer need a nurse to attend me.”

“And I will bring them to you when you are ready, I swear,” she replied, plucking them from his hand and pocketing them again. “In the meanwhile, can I get you anything to make you more comfortable? Would you like a gramophone brought in? You could listen to some music or I could fetch you some books. Maybe one of the nurses could read to you.”

“Some books would be nice, thank you.” He closed his eyes and sagged against the pillow.

“Then I’ll have some sent over. I promise not to choose anything too racy.” She rose and walked to the door. “I have to leave, but I’ll stop by tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Grell,” he whispered as her hand closed around the doorknob, “I’ve been very unkind to you over the years.”

“I often deserved it,” she replied, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tingle that usually assaulted her when she thought too hard about William’s past actions, “but it doesn’t matter now. We’re colleagues and you are in need of help.”

His eyes had closed. She could barely hear his words. “But we _were_ friends once . . . partners . . . until I drove you away.”

He had drifted off to sleep. Might they have a second chance? If she succeeded, could they regain their lost companionship? Or had too much passed between them? But, if she failed, she would allow him to leave when he was ready.

XXXXXXXXXX

Wistman’s Wood was not particularly large, nor were the trees very tall—most of the oaks topped her by no more than a foot—but Grell understood why Undertaker had described it as unearthly. Moss grew thickly on the gnarled trees and glowed a queer, luminescent green in the twilight. The outcroppings of granite were slippery with the same moss, forcing her to stay to the barely discernable path that wound between the ancient trees.

It was curiously silent; only an occasional rustle of leaves could be heard—no frogs or insects, no creatures scuttling about the forest floor and, most ominously, no birds. Something slithered against her ankle and she tried not to think of the adders that populated this wood. Old footpaths rarely changed. The suicide Undertaker had collected would have walked this same way. She followed the slightly flattened and worn trail until she reached the spot of his collection and rested her hand against the twisted trunk of the tree.

How strange, she thought; if you knew it was there, if you believed it was there, it was quite unmistakable. There was the pyramid-shaped rock and, in front, another, heavily grown over with moss. But look at it just right and a ring of younger, brighter green—new growth—could be seen. And a similar circle in the centre—all sheltered by the overhanging branch of a triple-trunked hazel tree.

Something caught her eye, seemed not quite right. A twin of the venerable tree grew immediately behind, shading an identical rock formation, but the image was reversed, as if reflected in mirrored glass.

Grell walked beneath the arching branch, cautiously extended her hand and met resistance—like tightly stretched fabric that would give only so far before pushing her palm away. Undertaker had described the barrier between worlds as a veil. Could she open a portal as she did between the realm and human world? She didn’t quite dare for fear of what she might release.

The barrier seemed flimsier, more giving as she prodded it. Her fingertips tingled, slipped through as if the gossamer material was unravelling at her touch. The worlds beyond were hidden from those too dull or blind to see them or believe in them, Undertaker claimed and, with no more effort than passing through a spider’s web, Grell stepped past the veil.

Here the trees were many times taller, far more massive. Ten men could not circle their vast trunks with arms outstretched. They soared up to touch the darkening sky and spread their mighty branches to form a canopy of green. Leaves, turned silver in the light of the rising moon, rustled and stirred and whispered. The night air was cool and moist against her cheeks and her head was filled with the rich scent of fertile earth. This wood was a living, breathing thing—pulsing with life, fecund.

Grell turned her gaze to the night sky. Through the foliage, she could see the moon, brighter, sharper, somehow closer than ever before. The darkness was slowly dappled by hundreds of glimmering stars that burned more fiercely, lit up the heavens with a brilliance unseen in the human world. Had the world of men been like this once? Clear and sharp and bright?

She collected her thoughts and consulted her watch, recalling tales of men lost for centuries in realms beyond. Pulling off her striped neck ribbon, she tied it to a low branch near where she had passed through to mark her exit and leapt onto a sturdy limb off one of the trees. The great oaks were so vast that they bore her weight with ease and she cautiously made her way until she almost reached the crown.

Grell gradually became aware that the forest, which had seemed so silent and still, was filled with the sounds of the night: the whirring of crickets, the croak of frogs, the quavering hoot of an owl and the chirping choruses of birds. There were nests in these trees; she spied starlings and sparrows and, soaring above, spotted the distinctive forked tail of a swallow. The bird flew into the trees, landing on a branch not far from where she perched. The nestlings cheeped softly as their mother fed them and Grell felt a sharp snap of relief. At least, there _were_ nesting swallows in this world.

From her vantage point, she could see a river, winding a silvery ribbon in the moonlight, and several birds foraging on its bank. One took flight—another swallow—and swooped down into a nest in another nearby tree.

It was worth a try. She leapt to the ground and stripped off her coat. Flapping it loudly, she laid it beneath the tree. She could just barely see the bird, but heard its squawk of fright and saw something drop from its beak. Hoping it wasn’t a worm or insect, she dropped to her knees and found a small grey stone. There was nothing unusual about it—nothing to distinguish it from thousands of other pebbles—but she tucked it into her coat pocket, her heart hammering with excitement. It could still be a waste of her time; the stone could be worthless, but, so far, the legend had been borne out and she allowed herself to hope for the first time.

She stayed for another hour, spotted one more bird flying from the river bank, but could not follow it to its nest for fear of becoming lost in the dense forest. With the small scissors she had secreted in her trouser pocket, she scratched an X in the moss growing on the trunk of each tree she passed, to mark her path to the return to the human world.

Dawn was painting the sky when she arrived at her house. It was quite pretty, she supposed, but the realm appeared sterile and arid after the great primeval forest. Trees, flowers and grass grew, could droop and die, but there was no wildlife, nor birds or insects. In the still hours, the silence was oppressive. No wonder so few Shinigami, aside from Grim Reapers, were permitted to leave the realm, lest they recognize the artificiality of this world—barren and unchanging—with nothing to nurture or love beyond a handful of children and a few plants and trees.

She thought of Gordon and Frank and realized that their high spirits and inquisitiveness would be ground out of them over the centuries until they became as faceless and indistinct as the rest of the Shinigami and the idea saddened her immensely. No wonder Undertaker had left this world and sought employment that acknowledged the great cycle of life. No wonder he had defied the Will of the Higher Up and attempted to _create_ life after centuries of living in a wasteland.

Desperate to snatch a few hours’ sleep, Grell lay down and tried to banish these uneasy thoughts, but this new knowledge haunted her. Was she the only one who had recognized this? Was that why she fit in so poorly in this world? Was it more than her form and nature and so-called eccentricities? She scratched unthinkingly at her forearm while she tossed in her bed. The stubbornness and ferocity that repelled and appalled William and the rest; the recklessness and defiance—was she doomed to remain forever an outcast until she could bear it no longer, until she was overcome by Jack the Ripper’s red lust once again, until, like the old mortician, she turned her back on the Dispatch and forfeited her soul?

XXXXXXXXXX

If she concentrated very hard on the brass nameplate on the doctor’s desk, if she carefully traced the letters spelling out Dr Sullivan with her fingertip, his words might settle more gently into her. If she counted the pens in the holder on his desk, attempted to read the titles of the volumes ranged on the bookshelf behind him, she would not leap from her seat and wrap her hand around his throat to stem the awful, hideous things he was saying.

“You—you believe the poison is working more deeply on William?” she finally managed to ask, amazed that her voice was so steady.

“I do. He is running a high fever—raving at times. We think that the poison, having run its course in attacking his weakest point, is consuming him entirely.”

“How long?”

“A week, perhaps.”

“But it took decades to reach this point!” she cried. “Why would it finish him off so quickly?”

“I wish I had an answer,” he said, swiping his face wearily. “We know so little about demon poisons, but we are not giving up. He says your name often in his delirium. I have instructed the nurses that you may visit him whenever you wish, for as long as you like. Maybe your presence will give him some peace.”

She couldn’t help the grim chuckle that escaped her at that statement—that William should desire her company _now_.

Even in the grip of fever, he lay composed and still in the bed, but his skin was waxen and when he sluggishly opened his eyes, she saw they were filmed and muddy. Stripping off her glove, she took his hand in hers. “Will, dearest,” she murmured, “I brought a book. I’ll read to you for a little while.”

He nodded slightly.

“It’s _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. When you’re recovered, you must look at the pictures. They’re charming and there’s the most striking cat.”

“Won’t be recovering,” he muttered. “Might be blind, but nurses think I’m deaf, too.” His eyes closed as if worn out from the effort of speaking.

She wet a cloth in a basin of cool water next to the bed, saw his spectacles sitting uselessly on the night stand and swallowed hard. Bathing his face and neck, she said briskly, “What nonsense! As if those silly cows know anything!”

Grell read to him for an hour, glancing at him every few pages. His hands twitched restlessly and he mumbled unintelligibly once or twice, but he seemed to be following the story. Finally putting the book aside, she smoothed his ruffled hair, sponged the sweat from his face again and perched his spectacles on his nose. “You must take care of your glasses,” she whispered shakily.

The corner of his mouth twitched and he lapsed into sleep.

Once returned to her office, Grell paced restlessly about. Time was running out; she had no choice and went to seek out Northrop. She was surprised to find him occupying an empty office next to William’s, but he had shown remarkable tact so far—he seemed to be both kind and fair.

“I have received an update on William’s condition,” he said, shaking his head. “His prospects are not good. This must be very difficult for you.”

She felt her throat close when she glimpsed genuine compassion in his gaze. Everyone insisted on treating her feelings for William like some sort of joke—as if it were some amusement she had devised.

“Suppose I were to tell you that there is a very slight chance I have found a treatment,” she replied.

“That would be very good news. Where?”

“I would prefer not to say.”

Northrop regarded her steadily for a moment, pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles up his nose. “I will only be here until a permanent replacement can be found for William,” he said, “but, as Acting Supervisor, I am granting you five days’ leave after your shift is ended today. How you spend those days is entirely your concern.”

She grinned. “I thought I might spend some time birdwatching.”


	6. Chapter 6

She was getting desperate. Over the course of three days Grell had managed to obtain only two more pebbles. She was badly bruised and scraped from a tumble when she had misjudged the strength of one of the limbs she had leapt upon and had heartbreakingly watched a stone fall from the mother’s beak to bounce off her coat and roll onto the forest floor, indistinguishable from the others at the base of the tree.

The passage of time in the other world was beginning to worry her. After what felt like no more than an hour or two, painfully crouched near the trunk of one of the great trees, she had returned home, stiff and aching, and discovered that twelve hours had passed. The sounds of the forest were becoming familiar; now she could pick out stealthy footfalls, the occasional cries of some vanquished prey, ominous howls in the distance and she was sure she had spotted eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Things were no better in the realm. William had sunk into a dull lethargy, usually barely aware of her presence. She visited and read to him every day and kept up long, rambling, one-sided conversations peppered with gossip, a ridiculous story about an agent who had misjudged while opening a portal and landed in a pig sty and anything else she could think of.

“Did I tell you what happened when I returned home the other day?” she asked, tiredly dropping into a chair beside his bed.

His head moved imperceptibly; maybe he was aware of what she was saying.

“Anyhow, I’m walking down the street and Gordon and Frank—I’ve told you about them, I’m sure—are out front and they’ve tied little Dumbbell to a tree. They were playing Spanish Inquisition, I believe. Now, I’m _sure_ they had no intention of setting the child on fire, but Mrs Evans—she’s little Dingbat’s mother—came tearing out of the house and simply laid into them, so I told her . . . ”

Did the corner of his mouth quirk slightly? She continued her monologue.

“And you wouldn’t believe what happened two nights’ ago. One of Ronald’s former lady friends caused the most frightful scene in a bar, they said. Half the Dispatch saw it. I’ve told him and told him he can’t keep treating the ladies like that, so it serves him right.”

She paused to dab his dry and cracked lips with a damp cloth and laid her hand against his burning forehead. His sunken eyes opened slowly.

“Grell . . . Cruel to you . . . ” he muttered.

“Just get better,” she murmured, clawing at her arm. “Fight this off and you can stamp on my face all you like, drag me about by my hair and whack me with your Death Scythe. Hold on for another day or two. Promise me!”

“So stubborn,” he gasped.

“I am. Now, I’m going to call one of those silly nurses to give you sponge bath and change your linens. You’ll be much more comfortable, I’m sure. And I’ll be back soon.”

“Be here, please. Be here when . . . ”

“Of course I’ll be here, my darling.”

Something like a smile flickered across his face. “I am not your darling.”

XXXXXXXXXX

She was being watched, could feel the eyes upon her, but, so far, the inhabitants of this realm had left her alone. Grell triumphantly tucked the stone into her coat pocket and leaned back against the trunk of an enormous tree. She had four now. Undertaker had suggested five or six, but William’s condition had worsened; she would stay as long as she dared and gather as many as she could.

The landscape was becoming familiar. She felt more confident about plunging deeper into the woods, and, hauling herself to her feet, was rewarded by the sight of a bevy of nests, many more than on the outskirts of the forest. With a soft chuckle, she realized she was becoming quite expert in the habits of swallows. Maybe she and William could go birdwatching together when this was done.

The trees grew taller here, their vast branches reaching up to the sky. She spied a swallow, swooping down to its nest and spread out her coat, but, rather than a lone cry of fright, the forest was filled with the loud screeches of hundreds of terrified birds who took flight in a frenzy that blackened the sky. Then she heard the growls.

It was larger than a wolf, larger than a bear, coal black with blazing red eyes. And it was not alone. Four or five smaller, but equally black, companions surrounded her. She summoned her Death Scythe in vain as it knocked her to the ground. Trying to shield her face from its burning saliva, she lashed out with her feet, caught its enormous jaws with her hands and wrenched them apart with all her strength. Her glasses flew from her head and she blindly sank her teeth into its face. Gagging with revulsion, she spat out the blood and fur, groped in her pocket for the tiny scissors and swung wildly, plunging them into its side.

The creature fell away and, with a great howl, fled. She lay very still as the rest of the pack trampled over her, their claws biting into her flesh, scorching her with their fiery hot breath and waited for what seemed like an eternity before she dared to move. Her fingers fumbled among the rotting leaves and stones on the forest floor until she thankfully discovered her spectacles and perched them on her nose.

Her coat! It was gone—carried off by one of the hounds. Grell crumpled into a heap and sobbed. Angelina’s coat! Sometimes, she pretended she could still catch a whiff of her fragrance in its folds. Sometimes, she smoothed her hands down the fabric and imagined she was placing it around Madam Red’s shoulders—that her companion and partner was not gone, that soon they would venture into the squalor of Whitechapel to unleash a beautiful, flowing river of red.

Her grief turned to despair. The four pebbles, so painfully gathered over the past days, were in the pocket. What a fool she was not to have kept them more safely, to have ventured into an unearthly realm unarmed, to have lost her only chance to save William. Her tears flowed unchecked as she frantically scratched at her arm. The deep, clawing marks always healed almost as fast as she made them.

William never understood—had always told her to stop fidgeting when he reprimanded her. How could he realize that the pain of her fingernails biting into her flesh blotted out the pain of his contempt? That the awful, burning tingling she always felt when she defied him, disappointed him and failed him had to be clawed away. How many times had she woken to find the fingertips of her right hand dappled with her own blood, her left forearm scraped and raw when William’s disdain followed her into her dreams?

And she had failed him again, she thought, her chest heaving with choking sobs of pain and frustration. This time it would cost his life. She found her handkerchief and wiped her nose and eyes and checked her watch. Rising unsteadily, she vowed not to leave the forest until her pockets were filled with stones. If she had to climb every tree to find a nest, if she had to blind the nestlings herself to force the mothers to seek more pebbles.

But how to frighten the mother into dropping the stone? Her coat was gone. She could return home, fetch her favourite red silk nightgown, try to find a scarlet blanket at a stall in London, but time was running out and she pulled the tiny scissors from her pocket, set her teeth and went to work.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was dusk again when she arrived, trembling with fatigue, at Undertaker’s shop eighteen hours later. The old reaper did a fairly good job of hiding his shock at her appearance, merely inquiring if she had been injured.

“A few scratches and scrapes,” she answered, surveying her tattered and bloodstained shirt and waistcoat. “Here.” She reached into her pocket. “I managed to acquire twelve.”

One tiny pebble fell from her shaking fingers as she placed them on the table to roll onto the floor. Without thought, she dropped to her knees, scrabbling about for it. “Don’t you ever clean your floors?” she cried, her voice cracking hysterically. “It’s down here somewhere. Help me find it! I can’t lose it! I can’t! I can’t . . . ”

“My dear,” he said, plucking it from a crack in the floorboards, “you are quite overwrought and exhausted. Have a seat. I will make you a cup of tea with a drop of brandy in it. You can rest while I make the preparation.”

“What will it be?” she asked, sinking into a chair. “How will it be given to William?”

“An ointment. Apply it to his eyelids and the scar and bandage them. I have the rest of the ingredients and equipment ready. It should be no more than an hour.”

She should be thanking him, offering to help him, but she was too dazed and weary to do anything more than accept the mug of tea he gave her and swallow it gratefully. Her head drooped into her hands and she gave up the battle to keep her eyes open. He had disappeared into another room. She could smell something burning; her throat felt raw with the acrid tang of smoke. She could hear him muttering and, she was almost sure, she could hear another voice replying to him. Deciding that she would rather not know what that might be, she allowed herself to drift in a haze of exhaustion until she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Undertaker had placed a small jar on the table and was holding a basin and cloth. “Your face and neck are badly scratched, as are your arms. What happened?”

“Some are the result of falling from a tree,” she murmured, tipping her head back to let him bathe her face and dab at her neck, “the others—I met a hell hound.” Oh, how wonderful to feel the warm water sponging away the dried blood. When was the last time she had been touched with kindness? Who was the last one to have touched her with tenderness? She couldn’t remember.

“And what about this?” His nail was tracing a thin, fine scar that ran along her left forearm. “When did this happen?”

“A long time ago,” she said carefully.

“I see.”

She couldn’t see his face; his silver hair had fallen forward. Gently pulling her arm from his grasp, she said, “I must get this to the Infirmary.”

“Of course you must, but come and see me in a few days. Let me know if we had any success.”

“I will. And I’ll collect those books. You should have had them long enough for your own nefarious purposes,” she grinned.

XXXXXXXXXX

There wasn’t really any pain. The old wound burned sometimes, but the headaches had stopped when the dark took him entirely. It was a bone-deep weariness—feeling his strength and will to live drain away one drop at a time—that troubled him, far more than the fever. How long had he been alone in the darkness? His awareness of his surroundings was receding like the ebbing tide, but he knew, he was sure, that he had not drifted unconscious through a visit from Grell.

Her presence was too vivid, too unmistakable, too insistent to be ignored. Her voice haunted his dreams, her fragrance seemed entrapped in the air of the room, her hair and coat still blazed scarlet in the folds of darkness that surrounded him and he could hear her now, haranguing the nurse outside his room. William fought through the gelid layers of lethargy that held him immobile; she had kept her promise to be at his side at the end.

“What does it matter where I got it from?”

Her voice was strident, grating as always. He heard the door fly open, could picture her stalking into the room, the hapless nurse at her heels.

“Agent Sutcliff!” she pleaded desperately. “I must insist that you let me fetch the doctor.”

“There’s no time!” Grell shouted. “He’s fading by the minute.” Her voice rose with every word. “So just _GET OUT_!”

There was a scuffle. He imagined Grell throwing the poor woman bodily from the room. The door slammed and he heard it lock.

“William dear, can you hear me?” She was standing by the bed.

He fought to move his head, thought he might have managed a nod.

“I have something that might help you,” she said quietly. “I’m going to remove the dressing on your old scar to apply it. Then we’ll see to your poor eyes.”

Her sudden intake of breath when she pulled the bandage away told him how bad things were. He had detected the smell of decay through the layers of gauze, but the scent of corruption was now overpowering. The salve was cool and soothing. The room filled with a pungent aroma—a whisper of wood smoke, the scent of rich dark earth, the smell of fresh grass and cool rain, that indefinable second when dawn lit the sky and the earth was made new again.

Like a gentle rain on parched earth, he could feel it, slowly soaking into him, reviving him, quenching his fever and restoring him.

“Now,” she said, “you must remain very still and keep your eyes shut. I am going to put some of this on your eyelids.”

Her fingers were infinitely gentle as she stroked them against his eyes and wound a bandage around his head. “Oh William,” she whispered shakily, “come back to me, whole and well.”

His tongue was too thick to reply, his fingers refused to move, he was still enclosed in darkness, but somewhere, in the deepest part of his being, he felt a shift, as if a heavy, ominous presence was slowly receding, losing its power over him.

There was a great commotion. He heard the door open and people pour into the room.

“Agent Sutcliff!” William recognized a doctor’s voice. “How dare you? What do you think you are doing?”

“She burst in here,” the nurse shouted. “Carrying some jar and threw me out!”

“Shut up you fools,” Grell hissed. “Shut up and look at him! It’s working! It’s helping!”

He could sense the doctor bending over him. He heard a low exclamation. “Incredible! What is it? Where did you get it?”

“Why should that matter?” she sighed. The fight had gone out of her, he could tell. “It’s a very ancient formula I discovered. The ingredients were acquired from—some distance away.”

The doctor’s hand was against his face. “The fever appears to be dropping. I’ll need to perform a proper examination, but I suspect he may be recovering. As for you, Agent Sutcliff,” his voice became stern, “I would suggest that you go home and rest or I’ll have another patient to worry about.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grell managed a few hours of sleep, but was far too restless and agitated to sit at home. She spent a long time staring at herself in the mirror. Most of the scratches and bruises had faded; she made up carefully to disguise her pallor and dark circles beneath her eyes. It was the best she could do, she thought, hunting out her old brown coat.

Of course, the entire Dispatch had to be present when she strolled into the office. She managed to smile sweetly around the room. “Good morning all!” she sang out. “Did you miss me?”

A few murmurs and muttered greetings were heard and Northrop approached her. “Good morning Agent Sutcliff. Step into my office, won’t you? The rest of you should have something better to do than stand about gawking.”

He shut the door behind them. “Dr Sullivan sent word that William appears to be out of danger.”

She sagged with relief in her chair. “And his vision?” she asked warily.

“It’s too soon to say, but he seems to have considerable faith in that miracle salve you produced.” He grinned at her. “You wouldn’t care to tell me what really happened, would you?”

Grell hesitated and, suddenly, the words began to spill out. Carefully omitting any reference to Undertaker, she told him everything else—speaking frankly of her fear, her foolishness and desperation.

“And how did you compound this ointment?”

“An old acquaintance,” she said quickly, “who would prefer not to be mentioned.”

“I see. And to have travelled to one of the other realms! I don’t think any agent today truly believes they exist. Even when I was active, there was only one, who insisted it was possible.” He fell silent and seemed to be very interested in the shine of his shoes for a long moment. “You were very brave. Foolhardy, but brave. William and the Dispatch owe you a great debt. I will see to it that a note is added to your file. Now, I’m afraid that the paperwork has rather piled up in your absence. I know you would prefer to be in the field, but, at least, this will give you a greater opportunity to visit with William for the next few days.”

“You’re very kind, sir, but could you do me one more favour? Say nothing of what happened to anyone here or William.”

“Of course. There are enough eyes on you right now as it is. No need for them to start wondering about your exploits,” he said with a smile.

At her desk, she began to leaf through the piles of paper. Most were fairly straightforward, but tedious and she dealt with them quickly. A memo from Management gave her pause—an announcement of the Shinigami Youth Mentor programme. Stifling her giggles, she prayed that the rest of the Dispatch would not discover where _that_ idea had originated.

Ronald burst into her office to complain. “It’ll cut into my free time,” he grumbled.

“Now Ronnie,” she chided him, “it won’t be that bad. An hour a week and I know a lovely little boy.” She grinned, imagining the horror of little Dummy’s mother at the sight of the Casanova of the Dispatch at her door. “And the ladies will love it. They’ll think it’s simply too adorable.”

“You think so, Senpai? Really?” He brightened at the prospect.

“Of course,” she laughed. “All those girls who’ve written you off as a heartless Don Juan—they’ll melt.”

She paid William a brief visit at the end of the day. “He’s sleeping,” Dr Sullivan told her. “A natural sleep. The fever has almost completely subsided, but he is very weak.”

The late afternoon sun forced its way through a chink in the curtains, casting a strip of light over the bed. He seemed to have some colour back and was breathing softly. Grell sat quietly next to the bed, watching him.

“Grell?” His voice was not more than a whisper, creaky from disuse. “The sun is shining, isn’t it?”

“It is, dear. Can you—can you tell?” she asked, frantically tamping down the rising hope. He might simply feel its warmth in the room.

“I can. It’s difficult to describe—like peering through a piece of fabric that has grown thin.”

“Oh thank heavens!” she breathed.

“No,” he murmured, catching hold of her sleeve. “Thank _you_.”

Sudden tears spilled down her face and she savoured the warmth of his hand resting on her arm and knew the price she had paid had been worth it.


	7. Chapter 7

He was growing stronger every day. His appetite was returning and he was able to move around the room for short periods. Every day, when they changed his bandages, his surroundings became clearer; the darkness was nearly gone. William regretted that Grell was never present when his dressings were being changed. He had never imagined he would be eager to see her, but she had been annoyingly evasive when he questioned her, had abruptly changed the subject or repeated her vague answer that she had found an old formula.

But she was not alone that day. “Good morning, dear,” she called out. “I have to run an errand, so I brought you some company. This is Gordon and Frank. Boys, this Supervisor William T. Spears.”

“How d’you do, sir,” they mumbled in unison.

“I’ll be back in about an hour. These two will fetch you whatever you need and keep you amused.”

At least he had been allowed to discard the hospital gown and was sitting in a chair, clad in a shirt and trousers. He faced the boys and, haltingly, tried to put them at ease, unable to remember the last time he had spoken to a child.

“Er—so you live on the same street as Agent Sutcliff.”

“Yes sir. Right across the road.”

He assumed it was Gordon; he recalled Grell saying he did most of the talking. Perhaps he should ask them about school, he thought, fumbling about for something to say when Frank spoke up.

“Agent Sutcliff says you’ve been ill. But we don’t get sick, do we?”

The boy sounded truly worried. William suddenly realized that the few natural born Shinigami had no concept of the reality of death—had never lived a human life or made the choice to end it.

“It was the result of a demon poison from a wound a number of years ago.”

“A demon! You fought a demon!” This was Gordon. “What was it like? Did he have a demon sword? What did it look like?”

“I have encountered several demons over the years.” He could sense the boys leaning forward expectantly. “They are _scum_!” He spat the word with contempt. “They can arm themselves in many ways—sometimes no more than a table knife and falsely attractive appearance. This one carried a short dagger. Agent Sutcliff killed him.”

“I bet she did!” Gordon crowed. “Agent Sutcliff is _amazing_!”

“Everyone at school is so jealous that we help her,” Frank added.

William’s eyebrow rose. “You help Grell?”

“Well . . . ” Gordon admitted, “we carried a pile of books home from the Library for her once.”

“You should have seen,” Frank interrupted. “Old Arias didn’t want to let her have them. Said they were full of all sorts of dangerous things, but Gordon told him that Agent Sutcliff was the best reaper in the realm. He wasn’t going to let her have those books until Gordon spoke up. So, we did help her.”

“You spoke out to the Chief Archivist?”

“He’s pretty nice,” Gordon stated. “We’ve gone back a few times and he shows us the most _amazing_ Cinematic Records—like the Battle of Agincourt.”

“And the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots. And then there was the time she told off little Dingbat’s mother. We weren’t hurting him, but she called us a pair of bloodthirsty, little savages.”

An involuntary smile crossed William’s face; it sounded like an apt description.

“Agent Sutcliff told her that if she didn’t shut up she’d see a re-enactment of one of the Ripper killings firsthand. Of course, she was only joking.” He sounded quite disappointed.

No wonder Grell had grown fond of these two, he reflected.

“Anyway, Agent Sutcliff said that we weren’t to talk your ears off, so I brought something to read to you.” And with much throat-clearing, Gordon began to read Robert Louis Stevenson’s _The Body Snatcher_.

William only half-listened to the ghoulish tale. Dr Sullivan had said his bandages could come off tomorrow; he believed he would be able to return to his home in a few days. Pops would be fitting him for new spectacles and soon he could return to the office; everything would be back to normal.

Except for matters concerning Grell. He owed her his career, his sight, his life. He owed her _everything_. He was grateful—more than he could ever express, but it was a debt that weighed upon him, oppressed him. Why couldn’t she be _normal_? Why couldn’t he be permitted to give thanks with a handshake, a commendation for her file or a good dinner at his expense?

He recalled their brief period of friendship, when her exuberance and flamboyance had been amusing and even intriguing. When they had shared drinks and meals and conversation. When her flirtation had been confined to an occasional remark that raised an almost unacknowledged tingle of anticipation.

He didn’t hate her, but, sometimes, he disliked her intensely, with the disdain of a man who has kicked a puppy that he knows will return for more. And he disliked even more the idea of being in her debt—could already feel the weight of her gaze upon him, heavy with expectation, mutely begging for some sign of regard.

So, it was with some relief, he heard her announcement on her return that she would be covering for an injured agent in Scotland and expected to be gone for two or three weeks.

XXXXXXXXXX

“That is all of them, I hope,” Grell said, warily inspecting the pile of books sitting on the table in Undertaker’s shop. “Because Arias will have my hide if I don’t return the lot.”

“All, I promise,” he chuckled. “And Willy is recovering?”

“Very nicely. The bandages should come off for good tomorrow, according to Dr Sullivan. He should be back at the office within a week or two.”

“I’m glad that all of your efforts were not in vain.”

“Or yours.” She hesitated before speaking again. “You don’t think . . . If, perhaps, I were to tell . . . ”

“If you were to inform the Council that I had been instrumental in this, I might find myself forgiven?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “I—I think I understand why you don’t care to live among the Shinigami any longer.”

Undertaker’s high-pitched laughter rang throughout the room. “You do, do you?” He tipped her chin up with his forefinger. “Would you care to tell me why?”

Grell pushed his hair back to gaze into his luminous eyes. “Because you loved someone or something to such a point that, when that person or ideal failed you, you turned your back on the Higher Up and defied the Will. You surrendered to the same despair that brings us to this existence, gave up all hope of mercy or forgiveness to tamper with the Laws of Creation.”

He took an involuntary step back, but his mouth curled into a grin. “Perhaps you credit me with nobler motives than I deserve. Are you familiar with Milton?” When she shook her head, he continued, “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.”

“Then you failed,” she said softly. “Your creatures were poor, twisted, soulless imitations of the Creator’s work. You gave up your chance for redemption, stopped serving the Higher Up to rule a dusty shop filled with vermin, mouldering furniture and a few old bones.”

His face contorted for an instant. Grell braced herself, ready to summon her Death Scythe, when he smiled. “My dear, I am going to miss your visits now that our business is concluded.”

And she was going to miss him, she thought, digging her nails into her forearm. The subtle thrill of the forbidden, the dangerous dance on the edge of the abyss, the dark heat that pooled in her loins when she looked into his eyes and the bright, hot blood that sang in her veins when she thought of engaging in furious combat with him—in any form.

“I’m very grateful to you,” she managed to say, gathering up the unwieldy pile of books.

“Then stop by occasionally. We’ll share a pot of tea and you can bring me up to date on all the gossip of the realm. It does get rather dull in this dusty, old shop.”

“If I can,” she said uncertainly.

He balanced another book on the stack she carried. “Or you could remain here with me. I think we would make a formidable team.”

She let out a forced, artificial laugh. “You are a wicked old man, to tease me like that.”

“Am I?”

XXXXXXXXXX

The office was quieter with Grell away. Peaceful, uneventful and dull, William admitted. But, even in her absence, she made herself felt. Fragments of gossip followed him everywhere, supposedly whispered conversations that could be heard by the entire office and shocked exclamations followed by uneasy silence when he appeared.

Honestly! Did she have to surround herself with drama so consistently? Could she do nothing without it becoming an occasion of great importance? No doubt, she was planning a great, grand entrance on her return, anticipating his shock and surprise.

His irritation had grown over the days; he guarded it, fed it and nursed it, and allowed it to mask his annoyance and guilt over the great burden of obligation he owed Grell. She was back. He had heard her voice in the outer office earlier and braced himself, but she had disappeared into her own office.

Might as well get it over with. He crossed the office and knocked on her door, opening it before she could respond.

He thought he had prepared himself, had been determined to show no reaction, but the sight of her, clad in her old, brown coat and shorn head, rendered him speechless. _Her hair_! That flaunting wealth of red hair—all gone. She looked smaller, paler, defenceless and vulnerable.

“Good morning,” she said with a faint smile. “I know it’s a bit of a shock, but don’t stand there gaping. You’re making me nervous.”

Abandoning every resolution he had made, he gasped, “Why?”

“Can’t a lady decide that she needs a new look?” she retorted, but refused to meet his eyes. She tossed her head defiantly. “It’s so much easier—cooler and more convenient.”

Why could she never sit still when he spoke to her? There she was, scratching at her arm again, as if his presence gave her fleas. “And abandoning Madam Red’s coat is part of this new look?” Why should he care how she dressed or how she wore her hair, he wondered. But something kept pricking at him—the certainty that she was hiding something.

“My coat was lost,” she muttered, bending her head to the papers on her desk.

“How?”

“What should that matter?” she asked, glaring at him. “I’ll see about getting a new one made sometime.”

But she had loved that coat for reasons he could never bring himself to understand. Had carefully mended it, replaced missing buttons and reattached that absurd bow to the back more times than he could recall.

“Would you allow me to replace it?” he asked. “As a token of my gratitude for what you have done for me.” Here was a simple, graceful solution, he thought. A means of repaying the heavy debt he owed her.

“Would that make you happy? Relieved to know that you had discharged your obligation to me?”

Did she have to state it so baldly? Shouldn’t she be hanging from his neck, sobbing with relief over his recovery? Shouldn’t she be making lewd suggestions as to how he could repay her? “You did me a great service. It would make me—happy to do something for you. A small thing in comparison, I know, but that coat meant a great deal to you. It must have caused you pain to lose it.”

Her expression had softened, but she was holding her arm close to herself, as if in pain.

“Very well,” she finally said. “I’ll have the tailor send his bill to you. I promise not to be _too_ extravagant.”

“No! No!” William insisted. “Spend what you like.”

“You might regret saying that,” she grinned. “Now, sit down, for pity’s sake, and tell me, are you fully recovered?”

“Completely,” he replied, relieved that the odd, tense moment had passed. “Pops believes that my sight may even be better than it was when we graduated. And the old scar has vanished entirely—as if it never existed.”

“That is good news. And how is the Grim Reapers Care initiative progressing?”

“Quite well, but Northrop excused three agents from the Mentor programme. That caused some resentment.”

Grell sighed. “I know it’s bad form to poke into such matters, but he made some inquiries. All three came into this existence for reasons to do with children. It would have been cruel to force them to participate.”

“Honestly Grell!” he complained. “We are supposed to perform our jobs without emotion or error.”

“Of course you’d say something like that!” she said in disgust. “You don’t have a heart to break.”

She’d said something like that once before—the night they faced the demon at the base of the Monument.

“But some of us do,” she continued, her voice rising. “Some of us keep trying and trying, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how useless we know it is . . . Even when we don’t want to . . . Because we have no choice.”

She was doing it again. Had shrunk back in her seat, curled in upon herself, plucking at her arm like she was trying to gouge out chunks of her own flesh. A rivulet of blood ran down her chin where she had bitten her lip and more crimson drops spattered the papers on her desk, trickling from her sleeve.

“Grell!” he shouted, catching her arms and holding them. “Calm yourself and sit still for once.”

Her face was close to his. She might claim to be a superb actress, but she had never been able to conceal her feelings from him. They were always writ large on the canvas of her fair skin and in the sparkle of her eyes. She was flushed with anger, but her eyes betrayed surprise—a dawning awareness of some sudden piece of unwelcome knowledge and, behind it, a rising fear.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling away and resting her hands on her desk, clasped tightly together. “I guess I got a little carried away—what with the emotion of our reunion and all.”

She was smiling—a supercilious smirk that could not drown the panic in her eyes—and began to babble about her time in Scotland. The countryside was beautiful, but the weather was horrid. It had rained the entire time. She still felt soggy . . .

Grell had _never_ feared him. She had always responded to his blows with a strange, twisted pleasure that appalled and repelled him. She had always squirmed in her chair in sullen defiance when he reprimanded her like a child who was only sorry he had been caught and had made false, empty promises to do better. She had quailed under his gaze, looked cowed, shamed and pained, but had never feared him. And for the first time in nearly a century, William knew he had the upper hand over Grell Sutcliff.

He cut her off mid-sentence. “I’m glad your trip to Scotland was productive, but I have a great deal of work to get back to.”

“Heavens, yes!” she exclaimed brightly. “And so do I. I have several collections in London as well this afternoon and then I’m joining Gordon and his family for supper tonight. It’s funny,” she laughed, “now I look halfway respectable, the neighbours have become positively friendly. Even little Dunderhead’s mother said my haircut looked nice this morning.”

His new knowledge made him generous. “It’s very becoming.”

It was, he admitted. Her hair had always been striking; even he recognized that the unusual dark red colour was quite beautiful, but like everything else about her, it was too wild, too extravagant, too loud, too _much_. But unlike the unruly mop of their trainee days, it now framed her face in feathery wisps, uncovered her delicate ears and bared the tender white skin at the nape of her neck. Oddly enough, the short hair made her look feminine, softer, almost pretty.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

William adjusted his glasses, swallowed uncomfortably and, for the first time in ninety years, allowed himself to wonder where the blushing pink that stained her face and neck ended, where it blended into the translucent white of her skin. And, finally content and at peace, finally secure and triumphant, he smiled at her, saying, “I know you have plans tonight, but, perhaps, we could meet for a drink after shift tomorrow.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“Well, my dear,” Undertaker said, “I would never have recognized you.”

“I know,” Grell giggled, spinning on her heel to send up a great cloud of dust. “I scarcely recognize myself sometimes.”

“I imagined your hair would have grown out considerably these past months.”

She tossed her head and laughed. “William likes it this way. Maybe, in a few years, I’ll let it grow again, but this is much easier and more sensible.”

“And your new coat—it’s very striking, but far more restrained than anything I could picture you wearing.”

Smoothing down the dark red wool that moulded her torso to stop just below her hips, she replied, “It is, but it’s terribly smart, don’t you think? William says it’s very elegant.”

“It is,” he agreed. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

“Sorry, darling. I’ve only a few minutes. I had a collection quite nearby and thought I must drop in on dear Undertaker, like I promised. I would have come sooner, but it’s a little difficult, you know. They’d raise such a fuss if it were discovered.” She began to scratch at her left forearm. “William would be frightfully annoyed.”

“I understand,” he said. “So William is recovered?”

“Completely. Sight’s better than ever; the scar is gone.”

“And, I trust, he was suitably grateful for your help.”

“Very,” she said quietly, turning a deep pink.

Nothing had changed in the shop except the dust was heavier. Nothing had changed about the mysterious figure who watched her with the most aggravating combination of amusement and pity in his expression.

“And you? Are you well? Are you happy?”

“Of course,” she insisted. “Terribly happy. Never better, in fact. I’m awfully grateful to you, you know. I owe you a tremendous debt.”

He caught her left wrist and pushed up her sleeve. His finger traced the scar on her arm. “Grateful enough to tell me the truth about this?”

XXXXXXXXXX

_April 1800_

The junior agent’s flat they’d assigned to her on graduation was awfully dull, Grell thought as she stumbled wearily over the threshold, but, at least, it offered some privacy. She grimaced, recalling the communal bathrooms of the students’ dormitory and pounded on the wall until the noise of her neighbour’s music decreased slightly. William had grumbled recently that his block was no better. And, she recalled with a grin, he hadn’t dropped dead with revulsion when she suggested that they look for a better spot together after their probations were ended—a large flat in a quieter building or even a tiny house.

After much protesting, he had allowed her to see him to his own flat and clean and dress his wound. It didn’t appear serious, but it was still oozing dark blood and, although he insisted there was almost no pain, she had forced him to repeat his promise that he _would_ seek treatment if it did not show any signs of improvement.

Gracious, but she was tired. She stripped off her blood-spattered suit and bundled it up to take to the cleaners, frowning at the jagged tear in the left sleeve. Her shirt and gloves were ruined and she was going to have to clean her shoes tomorrow, but, she thought surveying them lovingly, they were worth the trouble.

Her shower gave forth only a trickle of warm water, but she stood under it gratefully, tipping her head back to rinse off the grime and blood. Her first demon! In spite of her fatigue, she felt again the pulsing excitement of facing the fiend, the red-hot lust that had coursed through her when she saw his blood spill forth.

With dim surprise, she felt a sudden stinging on her left arm as she soaped it and peered blearily at the slight wound. Retrieving her spectacles, she examined it more closely while she sat, wrapped in a towel, on her bed. Four or five inches long, it oozed two or three bright drops of blood. Barely a scratch, although it tingled and itched uncomfortably when she applied antiseptic and a bandage.

Stretching luxuriously, Grell let the towel drop to the floor and donned a white lace nightgown. It was the first truly pretty garment she had ever owned, she thought, admiring herself in the mirror. Her hair grew past her ears now and down the back of her neck. Soon, it should reach her shoulders, she reflected happily. She fondly stroked the golden compact that rested on her bureau and gloated over the tiny crystal scent bottle next to it.

William had mentioned once that he liked the smell of violets. Tomorrow, maybe, she would put a dab on her throat, bend over him to change the dressing on his wound and see if he noticed. Tomorrow, maybe, they would go for a drink after their shift and she would regale him with all the Dispatch gossip he pretended not to care about. Tomorrow, maybe . . . And hugging her dreams to herself, she fell into a deep sleep.

XXXXXXXXXX

“It wasn’t more than a scratch,” she cried desperately. “I’ve received worse from a cat. A drop or two of blood—it healed in a few days.”

“Grell,” Undertaker said slowly, “it was from a demonic weapon. One you know was poisoned.”

She snatched her arm from his grasp. “But I’ve experienced no ill effects. The poison must have expended itself upon William.”

“A very subtle poison. You know that. I have a tiny amount of the ointment left. Enough to treat that scar.”

“It’s not necessary,” she insisted, her voice rising. “It works through the weakest point. What’s my greatest weakness? My vanity?” She clutched at her hair. “My pride? My temper? Nothing has changed, I’m telling you. Nothing!”

“My dear,” he said softly, taking her chin between his fingers, “you know where you are most vulnerable. You know your greatest weakness. It has already undermined you, diminished you, made you less than you should be.”

“No! No!” Grell stammered, frantically clawing at her arm. “You don’t understand. I’ve loved William almost since the day we met. No demon poison could affect that.”

“And William has repaid your love with decades of blows, scorn and cruel words. When did you understand why you were powerless to fight back?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, recalling the horror of the rising awareness that morning in her office. The knowledge that she completely in William’s thrall, that her love for him had been twisted by demonic poison into something foul and merciless and tainted.

“The let me fetch the salve,” he urged.

“And what would that get me?” she asked dully.

“Freedom! Freedom to be with William or not as you chose! Freedom to force him to treat you as his equal, his true partner.”

She forced her hand away from her arm and clenched her fist. William got annoyed when he noticed scratches on her arm. “Honestly Grell!” he had snorted. “Isn’t it time you broke yourself of that ridiculous habit?”

“It would get me nothing,” she said, schooling her tone to a false cheerfulness. “William would have no use for me if I started fighting back. We had a chance once, but cruel fortune decreed otherwise,” she declaimed dramatically. “I _am_ happy now. Terribly happy. Blissfully happy. William—cares for me, as much as is possible for him to do. He’s never been cruel since his recovery, never raised a hand to me. And I love him. It’s enough.”

“You could have so much more,” Undertaker declared, his eyes blazing. “You are fierce and wild and filled with passion. You could cast aside the foolish, petty laws of the realm and _live_. Be your truest self as you were when you stalked the alleys of Whitechapel. You know what it is to look into the abyss and laugh.”

She was drowning in his eyes, trembling from head to foot, could feel the blood pounding in her head. All she had to do was take his outstretched hand. There might be a moment of pain when she cast out her love for William, but then she would know the glorious freedom of one who has nothing to lose. To travel again to worlds beyond the knowledge of any but a few or to stay at the side of the only one who knew what she really was and rejoiced in it.

Grell pushed back his silver hair and caressed his beautiful, scarred face. “I wish I could,” she whispered.

“But you’re still very young,” he smiled. “Little more than those nestlings you watched so carefully. When the day comes, when you’re ready to take flight, you know where to find me.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Sometimes, Grell would wake up in the smallest hours of the night, roused by the tingling of the old scar on her forearm and she would leave William, sleeping deeply beside her, to wander restlessly around her little house.

The decor was a little more subdued and restrained than she would have chosen, but every relationship requires compromises and it had taken some persuasion to convince William to give up his comfortable and quiet apartment. The street was silent and dark when she looked out her front window, but soon it would come to life.

Two new families had moved in; it was nice to hear children playing outside again, since Gordon, once he had gotten over his disappointment that he lacked the necessary qualification to become a Grim Reaper, had gone to train in Death Scythes. She had promised to bring hers in shortly; he swore he had devised the most _amazing_ modification. William had looked doubtful, pointing out that the last time she let Gordon touch her Death Scythe the chain had fallen off. Frank was apprenticed to Arias in the Library and even little Dunstan had grown into a tolerable boy, although his mother complained that Ronald had taught him how to flirt with the girls at school.

The scar rarely bothered her; she almost never felt the urge to scratch or claw at it any longer. An occasional itch when William frowned or an uncomfortable prickle when they disagreed and she stood her ground. She hadn’t thought of the little phial of salve Undertaker had given to her in ages. It sat, almost forgotten, among the jars and bottles on her dressing table. She hadn’t picked it up and looked at it for years. Not since the time that William had mildly suggested that red nail lacquer was a touch vulgar.

But, the day before, she had been crouched on a London rooftop, waiting for her next collection, and had spied a black-clad figure walking down the street. He had looked up and lifted his hat to her before vanishing and her sleep that night had been uneasy. Nothing had been heard from him for years; the shop had been dark whenever she passed.

There were still several hours before dawn. The artificial night sky was lit by false stars and illuminated by a moon as unreal as a cardboard cut out stage prop when Grell slipped back into bed. William mumbled and flung his arm over her and she nestled closer to fall asleep and dream that she was a swallow, swooping over the trees to light onto a branch before plunging fearlessly into the river of fire below.


End file.
